A Different Sort of Darkness
by littledino1011
Summary: Arthur stood there, breathing heavily. He smiled grimly at the sight of the Minister of Magic crumpled like a ragdoll at the end of the room. Then the enormity of his actions hit him. "Oh, God. What the hell have I done?" Set during the fifth year! USUK with mentions of past FrUK. Sequential to Making the Grade but not a sequel - this is a separate story in its own right. Enjoy.
1. Prologue

**Hello there! This is my second Pottertalia fic! It is sequential to Making the Grade but because I am awesome I decided to make it a separate book in its own right. You don't have to have read Making the Grade to understand what's happening! (good idea, right?)**

**So go on... Read it. **

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"Look." England said, trying to regain his composure. "Voldemort is back. The second players are with him. He will be unstoppable."

Fudge glared at him over his desk. England stared back, eyes focused on the weaker man's face, cold and ancient. Fudge gulped. "Look, see here, England. We have no proof that He Who Must Not Be Named is back! None at all! Merlin's beard, you and Dumbledore are overreacting-"

"Overreacting, are we?" Hissed Arthur, making the Minister of Magic blanch slightly. "I know what I saw. Voldemort and the second players are returning and you know what that means, don't you?"

Silence from Fudge.

"Countries, Fudge! He has the strength of countries!" Arthur exclaimed, making Fudge drop his quill in astonishment, England never shouted. "You bloody fool! The muggles will be as good as extinct, and the wizards? The brave who have served now and in the past? Dead in their homes."

"You have no proof…"

England was very close to seriously losing his temper, something that had not happened since before the American war of Independence.

"What… about… my… people?" He managed to spit out, emerald eyes hard.

"Every wizard lost, I can assure you, will be mourned."

"And the muggles? Those without magic?"

"No importance. People of that class…"

"Don't matter?" England snapped.

For once, Fudge was calmer than Arthur.

"Exactly. Wizards are superior to muggles and squibs - even you must see that. Therefore, we should have priority."

England's normally calm and pleasant demeanour slowly changed and his face contorted in an all - consuming anger; nostrils flaring, eyes flashing and closing into slits, his mouth opening, spitting the worst insults the English language had to offer into the room. His hands closed into fists and he crouched forward, daring him to repeat once more the words that had torn into his heart; that had dashed all his expectations of 'fair' and 'just' policies.

"You bigoted BASTARD!"

Fudge smirked slightly, tapping his wand on his desk and making the papers fly into his briefcase.

Suddenly Arthur let go with a right uppercut to the head that sent Fudge flying from one side of the room to the other at what seemed like the speed of light. His body made contact with the opposite wall and he slid to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Arthur stood there, breathing heavily. He smiled grimly at the sight of the Minister of Magic crumpled like a ragdoll at the end of the room. Then the enormity of his actions hit him.

"Oh, God. What the hell have I done?"

He rushed over to Fudge and turned the man over; looking for any signs of life, frantically hoping that he had not killed the man. Fudge was still breathing, but his eyes were glazed and he did not respond to being shaken by Arthur. A thin trickle of blood ran from his hairline down to his jaw. He was out cold.

The door opened. A witch stood in the doorway. She wore a pink, frilly blouse and had a small bow perched on top of her mousy curls. Arthur thought that she was rather reminiscent of a toad.

"Do you want any tea…?" She simpered, before trailing off. "Minister!"

"No!" Arthur moved in front of the Minister's prone body, blocking it from view. "Nothing's wrong, nothing!" He tried to convince her, desperately hoping for a way to escape the current situation.

The woman pushed around him, and saw Fudge's body. She screamed.

"SECURITY! HELP! SOMEONE'S BEEN ATTACKED!"

Uniformed wizards burst into the room. There was a suddenly a tremendous amount of noise, Arthur covered his ears and tried helplessly not to get trampled. He tucked his knees to his chest and sheltered behind the minister's desk. Shouting. The sound of running feet. Silence. Arthur looked up.

Seven wands were pointing directly at him, seven pairs of eyes stared at him in fear and disgust. England stood up shakily and raised his hands above his head, closing his eyes again and trying not to think about the seven different deaths he could die.

He swallowed. Then suddenly words came bubbling to the surface and rushed out of his mouth. He was totally vulnerable.

"I- I didn't mean to… I'm sorry-"

He didn't see the jet of red light before he fell to the floor, stunned.


	2. Chapter 1

**Ugh, motivate me... This is writing like treacle at the moment.**

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Kingsley Shacklebolt, took his seat as temporary Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Around him witches and wizards were chattering, so many that the noise became a unified hum, like so many agitated insects. He could really have done without this.

As an auror there were corruptions to purge, reappointments to be made and that endless stack of paperwork that was threatening to reach the ceiling of his office... and now this.

He could have got someone else to sit in as Chief Warlock of course, and indeed had for the majority of the other trials but this one was a particularly special case. With Fudge half-dead his position was tenuous. He needed to find both justice for the defendant and for the rest of the population - who were outraged at the attempted murder of the Minister of Magic.

His plum coloured robes with their regal silver W contrasted sharply with the shabby appearance of the blonde man being led into the chair below him. Chains leapt up and wrapped themselves around the defendant's arms and legs making him yelp.

Kingsley made a mental note to do something about those. True this was technically an attempted murder trial but the chains were hardly a necessity under the circumstances... He stood, a tall, dark, impressive man and he did not need to raise his hand before a respectful silence fell. There was no noise now except for a faint rattle from the man's chains. He was shaking, from cold or fear it was difficult to be sure.

_Poor devil_, thought Kingsley.

"What is your name?"

"Arthur Kirkland," replied the young man, wiping his blonde hair from his eyes. He looked up at Kingsley. Even from the warlock's high seat he could see that the irises were a vivid, iridescent green.

And he was young, much younger than Kingsley had expected. He hoped this might sway the Wizengamot to be lenient though if history were anything to go by this would not be so. A quick glance at his notes told him he was 23 years old though he would have guessed much younger. He had the smallish stature of a nineteen or twenty year old and was rather thin.

"You stand accused of the attempted murder of the Minister of Magic," Kingsley continued in his deep, soft voice. "How do you plead?"

"Guilty," said Arthur uncertainly. A few members of the Wizangemot gasped in horror. "No! I mean I did wish to kill him, but I didn't mean to, I was provoked! I... I..." He lapsed into silence, but his panic stricken verdant eyes kept flicking at the mostly hostile witches and wizards judging him.

"Before we begin," said Kingsley heavily. "I think it would be helpful to go through and have you confirm those aspects of the case which are undisputed. Last week were you and Cornelius Fudge were having a private meeting in his office?"

"Yes," replied Arthur.

"You then proceeded to have an argument, during which you threw him off and onto a stone wall upon which he hit his head?"

"Yes," Arthur replied again, winding the chains round and round his forearms in an agitated way, "But..."

"Let us hear the facts before the debate," said Kingsley, patiently. "I am aware that there are other factors present. What I need to know is… Did you throw the Minister of Magic onto a stone wall?"

"Yes," Arthur confirmed. "But…"

"And on regaining your senses you waited a full five minutes before you were discovered, is this correct?"

There was a buzz of angry murmuring. Arthur cringed backward in his seat.

"Yes but he was alive!" Arthur protested. "I was confused and afraid of what the ministry would do to me!"

Kingsley glared at Arthur, who did not shrink from him but met his gaze steadily.

"The ministry exists only to serve justice."

"You think that." Arthur pleaded, "But you're wrong!"

"How so?" For a second it looked like it was only the two of them in the room. Then the illusion was broken. Arthur looked around desperately, willing everyone to believe him.

"The ministry of magic is like an apple." He reasoned. "It seems so beautiful and lovely on the outside but once you look past the centre… it is rotten. It exists to help the corrupt gain power and those who are not corrupt will fall. They will fall so far… I have been guarded by dementors for five days. I'm not sure how much longer I can take without losing my sanity. I need you to know the truth - if you prosecute me you'll be playing right into Voldemort's hands!"

A shiver went around the room at the name.

Kingsley took a deep breath. "You are saying that you are completely instrumental to the fall of He Who Must Not Be Named?"

Arthur nodded. "It may seem far-fetched but yes."

Someone on the right hand side of the hall stood up. It was Dolores Umbridge, Kingsley realised.

"You honestly think that you are above our laws?" She asked. There was a murmur of assent along the room and Kingsley shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

_It is democratic._ He reminded himself. _Democracy_.

"You have committed an offence so vile," Umbridge continued harshly

"No," said Arthur. "No. . .please . . ".

"- that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court," She said, speaking more loudly, drowning out his voice.

"We have heard the evidence against you. You have tried to sabotage our democracy-"

"I didn't!" Shouted the man in chains below. "I didn't mean to, I swear it. Don't send me back to the dementors -"

Kingsley stood up. He sighed heavily. "I ask the jury-"

"I'm ENGLAND!" Screamed Arthur. "You can't send me away! I need to be here. I…" He paused at the hostile stares of the jury. "I'm not mad!"

"I now ask the jury," Said Kingsley, "to raise their hands if they believe that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!"

In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The crowd around the walls began to clap, their faces full of savage triumph. Arthur went extraordinarily pale.

"No! You can't send your own country to Azkaban!"

The dementors were gliding back into the room. Arthur was trying to fight off the dementors, even though Kingsley could see their cold, draining power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering, some of them on their feet, as the man continued to struggle.

"AMERICA! I need you… Let me go!"

"Take him away!" Umbridge shrieked at the dementors, spit flying from her mouth. "Take him away, and may he rot there!"


	3. Chapter 2

**AGH. I suck. Sorry for the short chapters. I will get better at writing them as it goes on. (I managed to write the perfect length chapters for the last few weeks of Making the Grade) A story gains momentum, doesn't it? Anyways, sad chapter :'( Don't say I didn't warn you... I should so write that as a hobby on my school profiling form! Hobbies: Torturing Arthur Kirkland... Yes. Well. A bit of a tangent there. So... Tell me what you like, what you hate, what you had for breakfast (joking - I am in a whimsical mood at the present)**

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_Knock knock_

"Who's there?" Asked Albus Dumbledore, still bent over an instrument in his large office as the sun set over the Quidditch pitches.

_Knock_

"Come in!"

The door swung open and there stood Alfred F Jones. Dumbledore remembered him from last year, the teenage boy who had suddenly turned up to help Arthur Kirkland prepare for the Triwizard tasks.

"Ah, Alfred, wasn't it?" Dumbledore was lying here - he knew the boy's name perfectly well, however, the pleasantry made the nineteen year-old take a few tentative steps inside.

"Yeah." Alfred fiddled with the hem of his shirt and straightened his cuffs nervously.

"What can I do for you, my boy?" Dumbledore gestured to a seat in front of his desk and took the leather one behind it. "I can assure you, this is the first summer visitor I've had in a long time. Most people seem to forget that the headmaster lives at school and…"

"Iggy's missing!" Alfred suddenly blurted out, not taking the chair. "Do you know where he is?"

Dumbledore frowned slightly.

"No… I don't." He at last responded. "When did you last see him?"

"Here!" Alfred paced up and down in front of the desk. "I left at the end of last year and Arthur promised that he'd phone me. He did and that's the last I heard from him, that he was home and safe and had a very important meeting the next week, so couldn't talk long!"

"Do you realise that next week the Order is meeting up?" Dumbledore asked. "He'll probably be there. You _are_ invited, you know."

America sighed irritably, wondering how the old man could be so _slow_. He rolled his eyes slightly but decided to be respectful to someone Iggy knew.

"Yes… I realise that." He answered patiently. "But I went to Eng- Arthur's house and he wasn't there."

"He could've been…"

"The door was knocked down." Alfred interrupted. "And the inside was ransacked. His house had been searched. I have asked the Prime Minister. He swears the muggles had nothing to do with it. However, I couldn't get hold of Fudge and his secretary says that he is very busy. You seemed like the next logical step."

Dumbledore's eyes widened.

"Indeed?" He said, rummaging inside his desk for a quill. He found one, licked the tip and placed it on the parchment. It started writing of its own accord. Alfred stared at it in amazement as he realised that Dumbledore was dictating a letter _in his head._ "This should motivate Cornelius…"

The quill scrabbled around on the parchment, leaving smooth letters in its wake. It wiggled and then leapt off, having finished its frantic dance. Dumbledore tied it to his phoenix's leg and the bird was gone in a rush of flames. America could feel the heat on his face.

Dumbledore motioned for him to sit down.

"Come on, Alfred. I'm sure Arthur is fine."

0 0 0

On an island off the north shores of England there was a prism of stone set on an island in the middle of the sea. The waves lashed at the stone but no erosion was possible for this enchanted building. Inside the prism were hundreds upon thousands of small cells. A man sat in one of these rooms, his head in his hands. There was no lock upon the door. Arthur Kirkland was imprisoned within his own mind.

He had been there for two days. Each second took more from him until he knew he could stand it no longer. He had to. Arthur tried to block out the images of wars and suffering flashing through his head but succeeded only in stressing himself more.

England let out a long, low moan. This is worse than any kind of pain that you could imagine. For the rest of the foreseeable future, he would be made to remember the worst times of his life. No-one trusted him. Now he was stuck in a cell. Dissolution was probably less painful than this.

A Dementor walked past his cell and Arthur turned his gaze from the window and looked towards the Dementor. The pain was unbearable and he screamed, partly out of partial insanity but more from the memories that flooded into his mind at the sight of the creature. So vivid. So real.

The smell inside the prison was horrible, straw and decay and death. Azkaban prison smelled sickly sweet. Like a bunch of service station flowers. Sickly sweet. America had once bought him some of those flowers, to apologise for sitting on Arthur's pet puffskein. Arthur had slammed the door in his face.

It was raining outside the window. Arthur pulled up his knees to his chest and started to close his eyes against the memories struggling to escape him.

_"Hey, Britain! All I want is my freedom! I'm no longer a child! Nor your little brother! From now on, consider me... independent!"_

"NO!" Arthur cried, his hands covering his face. "NO! America!"

_"What happened? I remember when you were great..."_

Arthur pulled the thin coverlet he had been given over his head, praying that he could stop remembering, stop shivering, to stop being. Hands twitching with cold, tears drying into salty tracks down his cheeks, England finally drifted off to sleep - but not oblivion. Pale ghosts and blue coats haunted his dreams.

_"I remember when you were great…"_


	4. Chapter 3

**Been sick :( Just a quick update to keep y'all going. Thanks for all of the comments, I appreciate them all, boast about them on Facebook ect. However, I don't answer them because:**

**1) It takes up writing and fangirling time.**

**2) You don't wan't MASSIVE ANs.**

**3) I am rereading the Vampire Chronicles (for the 1000000th time) and I don't want any interruptions to this sacred experience...**

**Yeah. Thanks for the comments! Guests, feel free to comment too - I love every single one.**

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"America!" The Aryan man shouted, clipping Alfred around the head with one hand. "Pay attention."

America winced at the ringing pain through his head and glared balefully at Germany, who was looking expectantly at him. "What?"

Germany rolled his eyes. "Where is England?"

Alfred glanced back at the chair that his ally should occupy. "I… I… don't know… He should be here."

"Ja, obviously." Germany snapped. "But he isn't, is he? This meeting is in his house, he ought to be here."

"Maybe Angleterre is up to somezing? Somezing private…" France chuckled.

Canada, Germany, Japan and Russia all glared at him. America sighed. The G8 meeting was progressing even slower than it normally would. The seven of them were talking in loops, no one really making any decent points, yet each subject being argued as if it was a matter of life and death. Actually, that should have been six. Italy had fallen asleep in the first hour and was snoozing on Germany's shoulder, each minute slipping a little further onto his lap.

"This meeting is not a matter of discussing England's sexual habits!" Germany exclaimed for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day, slamming his fists down onto the table and waking Italy up.

"I surrender unconditionally and offer myself as prisoner!" Screamed Italy, without opening his eyes. He jumped off Germany's lap and backed into the wall, his amber eyes opening. When he realised what had happened a slight blush appeared on his pale cheeks. "Ve~ Sorry, Doitsu."

"Just because Japan says it does not mean that you can, Italia." Germany said, teeth gritted.

Italy settled himself on his own chair and read the notes that Japan had made for him.

"Grazie, Japan."

Wearily Canada restarted the speech that he had just begun. The sky outside the window turned darker, the clouds broke open and it started to rain, hard. It didn't come as much of a shock to the countries, it had been pouring on and off all day but when it started to clap with thunder, Japan looked up.

"America-san? Are you sure that England is okay? Can't countries have an indirect effect upon their weather?"

America swallowed, tapping his fingers on the table. Suddenly he saw his watch. Five minutes to five.

"I'm sure that Iggy's fine! Gotta go! I have a meeting… yes, a meeting… to attend. See ya!"

He turned on the spot, praying that he was doing it right, and with a pop and a nasty squeezing sensation, disapperated.

_Thud._

"Crap!" Alfred swore, picking himself up from the dusty pavement of Grimmauld Place. He realised that everything was slightly out of focus. He blinked. He blinked again. Suddenly America felt his face. "God, that was stupid… Where's Texas?" He blindly felt around where he had fallen. Gum. A cigarette stub. Miscellaneous litter. His glasses. Alfred put them on and could truly see the dinginess of the street.

Walking with purpose, America walked up to the door of number 12. A large notice was scrawled on a scrap of paper attached to it

_Knock lightly, please_

He rolled his eyes. Stupid house-proud Brits. Alfred grabbed the brass knocker and rapped thrice on the door.

An awful wailing met his ears. Screeching and screaming, the sound radiated out of the closed door in waves. He then heard a familiar voice.

"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"

There was a bang, and the wails stopped. The door opened and Sirius Black stuck his head out.

"Oh, hello. You're Arthur's friend, aren't you?" He said, sticking out a hand. Alfred shook it and was gestured inside. "Come in! The meeting should start soon. Where's Arthur?"

Alfred shrugged. "I was hoping that he would come here. No offence but this doesn't exactly sound exciting."

As they passed a pair of wide velvet curtains Sirius remarked. "So you heard the screaming then?"

"Yeah, what was it?"

"My mother." Sirius's face darkened slightly.

'Your mom- ?'

'My dear old mum, yeah,' said Sirius. 'We've been trying to get her down for a month but we think she put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of the canvas. Let's get downstairs, quick, before they all wake up again.'

"Lovely house…" Alfred muttered.

Downstairs was scarcely less gloomy than the hall above, a cavernous room with rough stone walls. Most of the light was coming from a large fire at the far end of the room. A haze of pipe smoke hung in the air like battle fumes, through which loomed the menacing shapes of heavy iron pots and pans hanging from the dark ceiling. Many chairs had been crammed into the room for the meeting and a long wooden table stood in the middle of them, littered with rolls of parchment, goblets, empty wine bottles, and a heap of what appeared to be rags. Two red-haired men were talking quietly with their heads together at the end of the table.

Sirius cleared his throat.

"Oh… Hello." The older one said. "I'm Arthur… Arthur Weasley."

"Hi." Alfred smiled. "I'm Alfred F Jones, Arthur's - by that I mean Arthur Kirkland's - friend."

"I'm Bill Weasley. You should have recognised me from last year." Said Bill, with mock hurt on his face.

A woman entered. She bustled around the room busily for a few seconds, reminding Alfred of a bumble bee, before noticing him. Her face broke into a motherly smile.

"Oh, hello, dear. I'm Molly. Have you just arrived? Sit down. We are numbering very few at the moment, Only four more people to come! Arthur Kirkland, Minerva McGonagall, Rubeus Hagrid and Albus Dumbledore.

People arrived, the absence of Arthur noted by both Dumbledore and Alfred, who gave each other meaningful looks. The meeting was rather dull. Alfred played with a butterbeer cork on h=the table whilst pretending to be knowledgeable. It was quite similar to a world meeting apart from the fact that America was not merely pretending not to understand… he actually didn't.

"Alfred. Alfred, my dear boy, the meeting's over."

America looked up into Albus Dumbledore's sparkling blue eyes.

"Sorry." He apologised quickly. "I'm just worried about Arthur."

Dumbledore nodded. "There seems to be more to this than reaches the eye, certainly. Where are you staying?"

Alfred shrugged. "Hotels, hostels, B&Bs. I'm not going home until I find Arthur."

"Do you know how to play Quidditch?"

Alfred grinned. "Yeah! I love that game. I bought myself a Firebolt as soon as they came out. Gotta have the new broom… Although Quodpot is better."

Dumbledore paused, considering his words. "How would you like to stay at Hogwarts, just until we can find Arthur?"

"Yes! Oh my God, Yes! How could I repay you?" Alfred gasped.

"If it wouldn't be too much of an intrusion…" Dumbledore hesitated. "Would you mind being our Quidditch teacher next year?"

000000000000000000000000000000000

Arthur curled further in on himself, trying to block out the other person's agonized screams in the next cell.

_A new one,_ he thought, mind racing.

He was scrabbling at the ledge of consciousness by his fingernails. He was terrified of the thought of falling into the crevices of dark memories, and as the Dementors tried to push him in he braced himself on the ledge by knowing he was innocent. He didn't do it. He didn't do it. The words fluttered in his throat, knotting until it was hard to breathe. He choked on the helpless, desperate thought, sinking his teeth into his lip. He could taste blood, but the pain was so slight, just a whisper of a foundation on which he could stand on as he waited.

_I was right…I was justified…_ He faltered, his eyes unfocused at the bars until they blurred together. Tears dribbled down his nose as memories started to seep through the cracks in his foundation. He covered his head with his hands; his face pressed against the grimy floor, and whimpered incoherently as the darkness uncoiled in the pit of his stomach and began to strangle him.

_"You used to be so great…"_

_"Black sheep of Europe…"_

_"From now on you can consider me independent!"_

The cold was piercing his lungs, making it hard to breathe, and he flinched away from the bars, cowering in the corner. The Dementor glided away from his cell, and Arthur dragged in great sweeps of breath, forcing it down his throat. He hoped he'd die in his sleep that night. He curled his knees up to his chest and tried to block out the swelling din of tortured cries and the rattling breath that echoed underneath it all.


	5. Chapter 4

**Sorry... Busy ect. Please take time to:**

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"Pst… Hey! Korin! Take a look at this…" One of the Aurors guarding Azkaban whispered excitedly to her colleague. "I've found something fun to do!"

Korin stuck her head around the corner. "Fun? In Azkaban? Nonsense. This place is depressing."

"Really." The other auror hissed. "Come ON, Korin."

"Fine." Korin grumbled irritably, tucking her long brown plait behind her back. "This better be 100% as funny as possible, otherwise I will personally see it that you are accidentally locked in here overnight, Asis."

Asis led Korin down a long corridor that looked much like all of the others. It was cold and dark, candles spluttering in their brackets and the strange, dry smell left by the dementors fumigating each room.

"So, Korin, there's this really cool prisoner…"

"No. We are not prisoner baiting. It's not funny, Asis. These are real people… They have families. Some will leave soon, whilst others may die here. Don't you think that being here 24/7 is enough?"

"But Korin…"

"No."

They stopped in front of a plain door.

"I'm going in." Asis said. "Stand guard, righteous weirdo."

She opened the door. Korin gasped.

Inside the cell was dark, the only light cast by a weak lamp in the top right hand corner. Dramatic shadows were cast over the walls, flashing and flickering. You could see the grey sky through the small, barred window. The sound of the waves crashing against Azkaban fortress was the only noise. The walls were what drew her gaze, though. Gouged into the magically reinforced rock were phrases and words, the ramblings of a broken mind.

**_Where is my hero?_**

**_Not my fault._**

**_Alfred._**

**_Alfie.  
>I can't hold on much longer.<em>**

**_I'm sorry._**

**_America._**

**_Help me._**

At first, Korin didn't see the prisoner. He was hunched at one end of the cell, blank eyes, looking out to the sky. He seemed oblivious to everything around him, the guards, the screams of the other prisoners, the freezing conditions. His face was impassive, though gaunt and sunken. Greeny grey eyes stared at Asis without blinking as she entered the room. It was not a searching look. If Korin hadn't seen him move his hands, she would have assumed that he'd been given the Kiss. For all intents and purposes, this man seemed to be dead on the inside.

Asis bent down.

"Hello." She said, in a dulcet voice gentler than her usual tones. "How are you today, Prisoner 1182082118?"

The man shifted slightly away from her, face still blank.

"Fine, thank you." He hardly moved his lips.

"Lovely." Asis smiled. "Hear that, Korin? He's 'fine'!"

She laughed a cold laugh that sent shivers down Korin's spine.

"Watch this!" Asis bent down next to the prisoner and ran her fingers over the man's dusty blonde hair. "So, 1182082118… What are your feelings on… dare I say… The American War of Independence?"

The prisoner stiffened. Life shot back into his eyes, and Korin saw that the grey had merely been the reflections of the stone walls and leaden sky. His eyes were a vivid green. They glanced over the room, as if he had only just realised he was there. He shook his head, dust falling out of his hair.

"Speak, 1182082118."

The prisoner blanched at the tone used, shuffling himself back into a corner.

"Speak." The tone was harsh now.

The man opened his mouth, licking desiccated lips.

"I have no feelings on the Revolutionary War." A trickle of blood ran out of his mouth.

"Really? That's not what you wrote on the wall… Are you just lonely in here, is that it? Do you need a friend?"

The man flinched at the cold voice.

"No. Not again… Don't let a Dementor in! I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the taxes, for the war. I'm sorry for all I did to America. Don't make me relive this. Please! Four thousand years of pain… Not again… No…"

"You let a Dementor in?" Korin gasped. "That's cruel and unjust."

Asis hummed.

"Not really. He wouldn't co-operate with me."

"Why would you do that?"

"Fun. Boredom. Take your pick. There's a reason we have been appointed guards."

"He's so thin, are you not feeding him?"

Asis shrugged. "The guy has refused food for two weeks. He'll crack sooner or later. Or die. Whatever."

"Asis!"

"What? This isn't a bloody day care."

"You are telling me that you haven't reported this to the head of security?"

"Hardly any of them eat."

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, Asis, it is against our code of conduct to kill prisoners. I could report you for this."

"Bite me, Korin."

"Look at him. He's not a killer. He's younger than we are."

"Take over his care then. I don't give a-"

"Fine." Korin interjected quickly. "Now leave."

Asis left, dragging her feet.

"I'm so sorry." Korin rushed to the prisoner, who had remained motionless.

"I'm fine."

"I didn't ask you if you were fine." Korin looked carefully at the thin man. "I said that I was sorry. I should have stopped her."

"It's fine."

"No it isn't!" Korin exclaimed. "She left a Dementor in here! You could have been given the Kiss."

"I wish."

"You don't…"

"I really do." The prisoner sighed, the most human gesture he had made so far, crossing his knees and laying his hands across them. "I can't live like this."

"You can wait it out."

"I am in here for life."

"What?" Korin started. "Are you a… a…"

"Criminal, yes. Murderer, yes. Lunatic, probably."

"What's your name?" Korin asked, hesitantly, wondering if she had seen it in the Daily Prophet.

"Prisoner 1182082118" He responded stiltedly.

"No. Your _real_ name."

"I don't know." He said "I remember being called England… But that can't be right."

"Anything else?"

"I was alone." The man, 'England' replied. "Always so alone. It rained. The rain and the loneliness were my fault. I had cut myself away from everyone else. I was so tired."

Korin gulped. "Well, England… Do you think that you can manage some food? I guard twelve inmates here so I can assure you that you will be fed."

"Not hungry."

"You're so thin."

"I can go without indefinitely."

"Please!" Korin threw up her hands, letting them drop as 'England' flinched. "No, England, don't think that of me… I won't ever abuse anyone in my custody, no matter what they've done."

England smiled wryly. "It's so cold…"

"Don't you have a blanket?"

He gestured to his feet, which Korin could now see were callused and slightly blue from the cold.

"Do I look like I have had blankets?"

"Use my cloak, then." Korin threw it to England, who wrapped his feet in it.

"Thank you." He said, sincerely.

"No problem," Korin smiled slightly. "I like protecting people."

"You can't protect me…" England looked anxiously at her. "I know that that would be a bad idea. You might get hurt!"

"I won't." Korin wrapped England's cold hands in her warm ones. "Don't worry. You're safe now, England."


	6. Chapter 5

**This took sooo long to research... I had to ask my father about *gay relationships* in the 1700s... He was rather confused. He actually asked which fandom I was writing for, as I am also writing a Vampire Chronicles fanfic. Whoo! LouisxLestat... Yes, my life in a nutshell. Christmas holidays start on Tuesday so expect more regular updates! :)**

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Alfred F Jones sat in his worst car, a battered old Ford Fiesta, tapping his fingers on the leather steering wheel. The traffic was appalling; he was trying to drive from London to Glasgow to start his new 'job'. He had tried to take the M25 but, as usual, it was at a standstill. After further study of his AA map, he decided to take the A1 straight up the country. He had been going so quickly, he had forgotten to turn on the radio before he reached a turn-off and so:

_"There are long delays expected on the A1, due to an accident"_

"Dammit!" America had growled, smacking a hand down on the dashboard, seeing the ruby glints of hundreds of tail lights ahead of him. That had been twenty six minutes ago.

The asinine songs on the radio were literally turning his brain into sludge. Alfred was convinced that if he heard one more song about unrequited love he would throw up. He flicked the switch to classical - which although boring, was not as unduly irritating as pop.

His thoughts turned to Arthur, as they usually did when he was alone. Alfred pushed his glasses up his face with one finger, his expression unusually serious. He knew that wherever Arthur was, he was not in a good shape, as the torrential rain indicated. The puddles splashed under the tires of his car. The red lights in front of the windscreen came up a little too quickly; America slammed a foot on the brakes, jerking a little in his seat.

He found that he could almost see his lover's face if he looked closely enough into his mind's eye, feel that unshakable bond. In his head, America went over England's features, the emerald eyes, his expressive nose and eyebrows, the rebellious piercing in his left ear that the island refused to take out, despite his 'gentleman' image. He remembered, with a slight smile, the time that he had fallen off his rope swing as a child, and broken his wrist. England had been there before he'd even had time to cry out, bandaging his sore arm and giving him a sling. He remembered when he'd been too little to understand, when he had caused constant trouble with England as a teen by being too affectionate in public.

"_England_?" _Alfred stood in the doorway of his mentor's office, his nightgown slightly too large for his ten year-old frame._

_"Yes, Alfred?" England asked absently, dimming the oil lamps slightly and turning to face the boy. "Oh, do come in… How have you been today?"_

_"I looked at those books you lent me, England." America said, sitting on the offered seat. "I didn't understand some of the terms in them though."_

_"Really?" England asked, surprised. "You're usually quite well-read. What was the term?"_

_Alfred pointed to the word in the large tome he was carrying. _

**_Homosexual._**

_England blinked. He licked his lips nervously and then started, voice slightly unsteady. "Well, Alfred… When a man loves another man very much it can be said that they are homosexual."_

_"Oh." America frowned. In the context of what he had read it had sounded like a bad thing. "That's fine then."_

_"What?" England's eyes were wary as he snapped the book shut. "What's fine?"_

_"I love you, England."_

_Arthur shook his head and laughed. "No. Not like that. I meant, when a man seeks to be in a romantic relationship with another man."_

_"But I love you, Arthur." America looked into England's face, cerulean eyes determined._

_"No. No, you can't." England's voice caught slightly. "You cannot. It is wrong. You are just a boy. Children say silly things."_

_"I'm not just a boy!" Alfred raised his voice slightly. "I'm over a hundred years old!"_

_"You are a child!" Thundered England, face dark. "Bed."_

_"I want you to listen to me!"_

_"No. Bed!"_

_"I love you, England. Why is that so wrong? Why can't I go out and scream to the world that I love Arthur Kirkland?"_

_England let out a strangled yelp._

_"They'd hang us before the sun rose. Now…" His voice cracked. "Go to bed, Alfred."_

_America was walking up the wooden stairs when he heard a small, stifled sob. He crept downstairs to see England's velvet-clad back to the wall, shaking with repressed emotion. He held a small watercolour that Alfred had painted long ago. Several tears dripped off the tip of his nose. _

_"Oh, America… Why must you break my heart so?"_

The traffic began to move, America looking over the trees on either side of the motorway to try to catch a glimpse of Hogwarts, or, as the muggles saw it, the ruins of Alnwick Castle.

00000000000000000000

"Come on, England!" Korin wheezed, as she tried to move the stubborn man from where he was adamantly sitting, in the corner. "This isn't the Azkaban of the middle ages! I literally just want to wash your clothes. I need to. I could get into trouble otherwise."

No matter what she tried, the man seemed to be weakening under the dementors' influence. She wasn't quite sure why she felt as she did towards England, but she was sure that he was innocent. His sad eyes melted her heart when she saw them, not mad, as her other prisoners' were, but deeply, unreachably regretful. He couldn't have been of any real harm; he had even forgotten his name, for goodness sake!

England looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

"I just need to wash your shirt."

He sat mutely for a moment, then, with trembling fingers took off his filthy Azkaban issued shirt and deftly folded it, pushing it across the floor until it came to a gradual stop at the Auror's feet.

"Thank you!" She rolled her eyes, turning away from him to put the garment in her bulging laundry bag and to remove a clean shirt.

When she turned, clutching the clean item, she was pleasantly surprised to see England on his feet. She had never seen him stand and was surprised to see that he was only a centimetre or so taller than her, rather short in fact. She passed him the shirt robotically, eyes fixed on the man's bare torso.

England was thin, deathly thin, translucent skin stretched taut across sharp ribs and hips. She could see every vertebrate in his spine. Korin dropped the laundry bag and stared, unabashed at England. On closer inspection she could see hundreds of scars across his body, dividing and tearing through the pale skin, a whiter shade of pale.

"Oh, England… What happened to you?"

He smiled, looking at his scars in a sort of morbid curiosity.

"Do I disgust you?"

"No…" She breathed eyes fixed on the grievous damage that had been done to the man. "You intrigue me, certainly. But disgust, no. I need to find out who you are, England. You need to find out who you are. From what I can see here, you have quite a few enemies, people to abuse the vulnerable state you are in."

A Dementor passed. England's eyes glazed over.

"Loathed by all. Loved by none. This empire shall never see the setting sun."

"What?" Korin asked, frantically shaking England. "What was that?"

He stared confusedly up at her. "What?"

"That sounded like old magic, dark magic. Who on earth are you, England?"


	7. Chapter 6

**A slightly longer chapter. If it isn't any trouble, could you guys check out my cosplay group's channel:**

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The petrol glugged from the hand held pump into the car. Alfred quickly checked his watch. He should be at the castle in less than ten minutes, late, albeit not very. He quickly shoved his credit card into the marine, typed in his pin number and then hopped back into the car, grabbing the card as an afterthought.

America looked at the sat-nav on his dashboard, wondering why the hell it wasn't showing the castle, only a blurry, grey area of no real navigational use. He took his phone out of his pocket and checked the signal. Nothing. It wasn't that there was no signal; it was just that the stars and stripes printed phone didn't switch on, although he had charged it just that morning.

He drove around aimlessly for a while. The sky grey darker. And darker. And yet more dark. America could see the stars coming out, the vague outline of the milky way swirling above his head. Many years had passed since the Revolutionary war, and the wars that came after. However, the sky was never quite the same shade of blue again. It was a rarity for America to revel in natural beauty, especially when stressed, but in this case he was staring, open mouthed at the beauty of the sky above him. He drove the car into an abandoned lay by and walked out into a field.

He had reached the end of the country, give or take a few miles. He wanted the skies to be clear, strained to recollect the non-polluted atmosphere of his rare visits here as a child. He could sense, but not quite grasp the memory of the inky, infinite blackness that he had once taken for granted.

_"Did I love her? Is that all you want to know?" Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index fingers._

_"Yeah." Alfred wore a calculating expression on his face, anxious fingers fiddling with the ridiculous suit he was being forced to wear._

_"Yes." The answer was abrupt, emitted with eyes tightly shut. A mere whisper, yet to the listener it might have been a shout. "Of course I loved her."_

America gasped as if he had been submerged in cold water. He looked wildly about, still he was in that same field, wind tousling his hair and blowing the collar of his bomber jacket up and around his face.

"Oh, Arthur." He whispered to himself. "How I wish I understood you."

_"I despise you! I ought to destroy you-finish what you started in the revolutionary war. Turn you into ashes and sift them through my hands. You know that I could do it! Like that! Like the snap of a human's fingers, I could do it. Burn you as I got Matthew to burn your little White House in 1812. And nothing could save you, nothing at all!"_

In his mind he could see Arthur's livid face, see the shattering of the antique crystal vase over his own head, the shimmering frost of glass on the floor. Arthur's shocked face, the tears and frustrated apologies. He remembered forcing the older nation to his feet, away from the glass, bandaging his cut hands and knees. He remembered the expression of horror on his lover's face. That was it, though. It was of no use to shout at Arthur; for England's greatest punishment was the condemnation of his own conscience.

Suddenly, he caught sight of it for the first time. Over the trees ahead was a tall turret, and another, and two more! Alfred sprinted back to his car, grabbed his trunk and broomstick cases and set off towards it, levitating his luggage. Hogwarts.

There was a broken path cut through the trees, Alfred took it, pushing ferns away with a boot. There was a crash as the broomstick case hit a tree.

"Dammit!" Groaned Alfred. "That better have only been a cleansweep…"

Soon he arrived in front of the gates. America opened the lock of the pedestrian gate as he had seen Hagrid do, with a tap of his wand and a click of a switch.

As he stepped towards the great stone building, his luggage took wing and soared away from him, towards the school. He presumed that there was a clever piece of magic in work there. He reached the front doors in five minutes, panting slightly at the exertion it caused to his already fatigued body. He let himself inside.

"Hello, there, Mr Jones."

Alfred almost screamed. Sitting on a bench at one end of the hall was Professor Severus Snape.

"Hi! I mean - Good evening… Or hello! Um, hi?"

"Twitchy?" Snape sneered, clucking his tongue.

"Not especially." Alfred plastered on a fake smile. "It's good to see you!"

"I wish I could say the same." An awkward silence. "Right. Get in there." Snape pushed Alfred towards the Great Hall doors.

"What? No!"

"Yes." Snape laughed sardonically and pushed Alfred inside, the doors slamming with a loud _bang_.

It wasn't that America was arrogant or anything, it just was that he sometimes demanded to be treated like the supernatural hero that he was. This was not how heroes were welcomed, with stares and whispers.

"Hi." He waved his hand, grimacing slightly, before hurrying up to the staff table, where there was a spare seat. A vaguely amphibious looking woman was standing, glaring at him. She had obviously been making a speech. "Oh, don't stop on my account. I'm sure I'll follow."

A volley of titters and approving whispers from the students. The woman scowled in his direction and carried on in a monotonous voice.

"The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community must be passed down the generations lest we lose them for ever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching. Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation . . ."

She paused and smiled around at the students.

". . . Because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited."

Alfred had stopped paying attention around about the word 'education' and so was surprised when he saw people clapping dutifully. The British politeness was rather sinister in these surroundings.

"Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating," Dumbledore said, bowing to her. "Now, our belated guest... May I introduce Professor Jones? He is going to teach Quidditch this year as Madame Hooch is on her sabbatical. Professor Jones, would you like to make a speech?"

Alfred stood up, feeling slightly nervous. He was used to talking nonsense in front of powerful, influential adults but speaking in this school hall really scared him. He supposed that it was because he had never been in this situation, having been home schooled.

"Um, hi!" His mouth was dry. "I'm not sure if anything I can say will be able to match that speech." He pointed at Umbridge. A few chuckles from the staff table and a wave of laughter from the students. "But, what I can say is that you're all going to love Quidditch this year! Also, I'm going to teach you all Quod-Pot which is what we play over in the states. People say that Magical Sports isn't a respectable OWL but we'll prove them wrong!"

A veritable wall of cheers met this speech. Dumbledore had to wave his hands thrice before silence ensued.

"That was short and concise, well done. Okay… I don't think that there's anything more to be said. Off to bed. Goodnight." As the school left he turned to Alfred, saying. "You shall be in Arthur's room from last year, do you remember? It is outside the painting of the skunk in a tutu."

Alfred left the hall and climbed the marble staircase with the students. He reached the painting and grasped the door handle, opening the door with a faint creak that he though should probably be attended to. The room was just the same as it had been last year; Alfred locked the door, kicked off his leather boots and jumped onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow. If he closed his eyes and imagined hard enough, he could almost smell England's earthy, home-like scent, mixed in with the smell of freshly laundered cotton.


	8. Chapter 7

**Hello! Thanks for the wait... I've been busy. (That is an understatement.) But it is here! Say hello to chapter 7!**

**More Arthur angst... I swear, I'm not addicted... Thanks for those who commented about the videos! I was as awesome as Prussia (only if his awesomeness wore a blonde wig and a green military suit, which he never would unless you shipped PrUK like me...). So, has anyone found any good fanfictions recently? I need to find a nice long one, preferably USUK FrUK PrUK SpUK GerUK (I ship many Iggy ships) or any mainstream pairing like GerIta or Spamano. Ideas needed, people!**

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"Give me… a pen."

Korin shook her head. "Sorry, no can do. It is against all policies."

"I need one… Please?"

"No."

She sounded firm but was sorely tempted, England had been lying on the small mattress in the corner for two days now, tracing his fingers in dull circles through the dust on the walls. He seemed almost broken, manic by social norms, but out of all of her other prisoners he was the most coherent. It was good to occasionally have a conversation with someone other than Asis.

"I need to write a letter." He huffed, gritting his teeth.

"I don't use pens - they're a muggle item."

"A pencil, then."

"No." Korin didn't know why she was standing there, arguing with a man who was in reality none of her business. "I'm going now."

Silence, then:

"Don't."

Korin turned back and sighed, crouching down to England's level.

"Why do you want me to stay? You seem to despise my presence, and are constantly arguing with me. Surely you'd rather be alone?" The last statement was a question.

England frowned slightly, eyes darting to the open door. Korin kicked it with her foot so that it slammed shut. He rubbed the back of his head and spoke in a low voice, quite unlike the more confident, commanding tone he'd used before.

"I get lonely. And cold. The dementors chill me to the bone. When I'm with you I don't remember as well as I do when I'm alone. Any more time in here and I know that I'll break."

He looked down at the thin shirt that all prisoners of Azkaban were forced to wear. His number was printed in large black letters across the chest.

**1182082118**

He fingered it idly.

"Do you specially print these or does the ink just wash out?"

She knew that he was trying to get her to stay, was annoyed at the constant irritating questioning, she did something that she instantly regretted. Korin turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her.

Something clattered to the dusty stone tiles as the door shut. England picked it up, turning it in his thin fingers. A mirror. A small, tin backed pocket mirror like the ones sold for five pounds in a supermarket. He peered into it. He couldn't really remember what he looked like anymore. Suddenly everything was cast into sharp focus.

Spiky blonde hair.

Large, bushy eyebrows, that seemed to take up almost the entirety of his forehead.

Prominent cheekbones.

Large, dark eyes.

England gasped. He looked closer into the mirror, seeing not a hint of green iris. His eyes were a dull, matte black, clouded like a blind man's. He felt the sharp contours of his face, saw how pale and translucent his skin looked. He remembered what the dementors had made him forget. He remembered why he was called England.

But he didn't look like a country anymore.

He didn't look human.

_"Iggy!"_

_"What? And don't call me that!"_

_"Why?"_

_"Because that is not my real name - I wasn't christened 'Iggy'."_

_"What were you christened then? Are you a Catholic?"_

_"Catholic or Protestant - I don't bloody know. You know that my real name is Arthur." England straightened up from dusting the hearth. "Why don't you go and find Mattie? I'm sure that you both want to have some chestnuts before bed."_

_"Yeah… Sure." Alfred looked at him curiously, fiddling with the cord around his cowboy hat. "Hey, Iggy?"_

_"What, America?"_

_"Your eyes are green."_

_"I know…" Arthur said, frowning at Alfred._

_"No! I meant REALLY green. Like… grass! They're so pretty." Seeing the look on his mentor's face, Alfred hurried on. "I'll go and get Mattie, shall I?"_

England let out a soft whoosh of air through his teeth, well used to the constant, forced reminiscence. He grabbed the mirror again from where it had dropped to the floor and peered into his face. His eyes were what defined him. Without them his face seemed pallid and lifeless. Empty. It would probably be better if he was never rescued. If any other nation saw him like this… He didn't know what would happen but was sure that many would use his weakness to their advantage.

Somehow it was worse to relive the good with the bad, to know what he could be doing instead of rotting away in this damned cell. Arthur paced it with a frenzy and energy that he had not possessed for a long time.

"Agh!" He shouted, thumping his hands against the wall in sheer frustration. "I can't bloody live like this!" Some rock crumbled under his fingers but the wall replenished it in no time at all. He would not be able to escape.

A fierce fire burned within him. How dare Fudge lock him in here for God knows how long? Who could even consider the levels of treachery involved in imprisoning their own country? He was the human personification of England, the classiest country in the world and he was being locked in a secure gaol like some sort of common thief.

He would not stand for this.

But first, sleep. Plans could be made once he could think coherently. He would not let his own people shut him away, like a savage. He would fight with all of the power of the Britannica angel and he would win. England flopped back onto the thin mattress, seemingly calm, yet aware of the anger and power within himself. There were thunderstorms in England that night.

000000

_He kissed him, there, in that sparkling grotto garden, lit by the moonlight as the clock struck twelve. On the twelfth stroke they broke apart, Alfred grinning happily, Arthur looking dumbstruck. He raised a shaky hand to his lips. It had been their second proper kiss._

_"Christmas day…" He muttered._

_"Are you convinced?" Asked Alfred, blushing slightly._

_"Yeah, I guess I am convinced." Replied Arthur, going a deeper shade of crimson. He looked as though he was making a difficult decision. Then he rushed forward and embraced the American. Alfred looked stunned. Arthur never usually 'initiated contact'. He was always the one who had to give the prickly Brit affection before he got any in return._

_"Arthur…"_

_"Don't get used to it, git." England smiled, stepping back._

Arthur woke abruptly, reaching idly for the warmth of the American before realising that he was alone. And cold. His heart sank as though he had missed a stair going downstairs. He glared at his frozen fingertips, willing heat into them, a useless endeavour. He was just starting to retrace his footsteps from the previous night when there was a tapping of some visitor loudly rapping, rapping upon the cell door.

Arthur was stirred from his reverie.

"It's only Korin and nothing more." He muttered to himself, ignoring it.

A louder knock.

"You can come in, you know?" England raised an eyebrow.

The door burst open. However, there stood no lanky, kind guard before him but the slender, hostile form of Asis. Arthur steeled himself, reminding himself of the victories he had won against old, old countries. He could easily beat an Auror undergraduate.

She said not a word but stepped towards him. This action, and the confidence with which it was executed spoke more than anything Arthur had seen of her. She knew how to induce fear. He would have been stupid not to realise this, it was after all her job to induce fear and wariness wherever she went, however, he had thought that as he was over four millennia old, he might have been rendered completely immune. He was not.

"You have a visitor, prisoner 1182082118."

"Oh." Arthur's heart began to race, picturing the faces of all of his friends and family. Anyone could have come. Anyone. He'd have even been happy to see the frog. Desperately, he combed his fingers through his hair and tried to make himself look decent.

The door opened again. A chill entered the room. For there, surrounded by two dementors, was Cornelius Fudge.

England stiffened. The two stared at each other, a satisfied smirk on one's face, a look of abject shock on the other's.

"You- you…"

"Hello, Mr Kirkland."

This sent tremors up Arthur's spine. These were feelings that he'd never felt before. Loathing. Fantastic images of all of the ways that he could hurt Fudge flitted through his head like sparrows.

"I just came over to see how you were enjoying your life sentence… You are a young man, don't you worry. You should live for a while yet." Fudge cackled and walked close to England. "Not so high and mighty now, are you, Mr Empire? Do you want to go home? To see your brothers…"

"What the hell did you do to my brothers?" Snapped England, hot spots of angry red appearing on his cheekbones.

"Nothing to _them_…" Fudge smiled.

"Who, then? My sister? Francis? Mattie? Alfred?"

Fudge laughed coldly. "Nothing has happened… yet. If you want things to stay that way then I would advocate complying with the ministry's plans. Be a good boy, stay here, keep your head down and I'll change your sentence to a mere two hundred years…"

He turned to go.

"Bastard." England muttered.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing." The former empire looked scathingly at the minister of magic. "Could I please have a pen and paper? So that people won't _worry_ about me?"

"Have them." Fudge smiled with false indulgence, like a creepy uncle. He threw the stationery down on the mattress and walked over to the open door. "You can write your little letters, and send them. I don't care. However," He stopped as he was walking through the doorway. "You will not be receiving the replies. Have a nice life, _Arthur_."

England grabbed the pen quickly and scribbled the first line of the letter in a hand most unlike his usual, neat cursive.

**_I'm sorry, Alfred…_**


	9. Chapter 8

**Hope y'all are having a nice holiday. I am stuck in Derbyshire, away from my prezzies (woe is me)... Kudos to the person who wrote the parody letter in your comment. That was classy but I cannot quite remember your username... Sorry. That was one classy comment. That is how to do it, those of you who don't comment. Brilliant. Be sure to watch the Dr Who Christmas special tomorrow!**

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_**I'm sorry, Alfred.**_  
><em><strong>I cannot see you for some time. I don't know where you are or what you are doing but please, if you need help, go to Dumbledore. Tell him that I am in Azkaban fortress. I know that this letter shall be read by others than yourself but be assured, I shall endure.<strong>_  
><em><strong>I cannot describe what I have seen in here. It is constantly cold and my bones feel chilled, not to mention the nasty cough that I can't seem to shake off. I have a bed, at least, and that is of some comfort. I have been told that if i co operate then my sentence shall be reduced to two centuries. When next I see you you should be pushing a millennia!<strong>_  
><em><strong>It is growing dark now. I can see the moon through the window. In the morning I should be given breakfast. This is quite surprising - since my first guard, Korin, disappeared I have not had a decent meal. I know nothing of her whereabouts but that she was kind to me when I most needed it. She fixed me when I was broken.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Be assured, Alfred, I will be fine. Azkaban is not known for its comfort but surely it will take more than a few dementors to silence the mighty British Empire! Tell Allastair about my location, he will tell my brothers. Don't come to visit me - or get any hairbrained schemes in your head. Azkaban is impenetrable. You don't want to see me. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Remember, I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest. You are the centre of my universe. My hero.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Your lover,<strong>_  
><em><strong>Arthur Kirkland<strong>_

Alfred's hands trembled uncontrollably as he read the childish writing. He could see faint marks on the paper where Arthur had pressed the pen too hard in his haste to get words out. The signature at the bottom was the most telling. Rather than his informal 'England' signature, he had used his official one. The letters were slightly tilted to the left and the underlines that were usually so smooth were crooked and jagged, done by a trembling hand.

America's eyes were red and puffy. He was shaking with his knees up to his chest, chin resting in the little dip between where both his knees met. The whole world around him was blocked out and only heard his thoughts inside his head. They weren't pleasant thoughts. His jacket collar was damp and he felt like crawling into a hole and staying there for a long time.

Students kept glancing over to Alfred every so often. The staffs' tones were hushed for his sake. He was wound up enough and didn't need any more things to worry about. It was his first teaching day and he was completely wrecked by the news that the black owl had carried.

"Prison," Filius Flitwick said in a hushed tone.

Pomona Sprout looked up at the charms teacher and nodded, "I heard that too. Azkaban. Poor sod hasn't got a chance."

"Really," Minerva McGonagall warned harshly in a whisper. She then glanced over to Alfred.

"Right," they all said quietly, returning to their quiet state.

"I'm sure that Arthur Kirkland will be fine." A calm voice. It was Dumbledore.

"How do you know?" America managed to ask in as calm a voice as he could conjure up. His voice cracked slightly and he sniffled, "Sir, he says here that he hasn't even been fed-" he broke down again and buried his face in his knees.

Just then, the bell rang. The teachers dispersed and Alfred wandered into the grounds, keeping his eyes on his watch as his very first lesson was in an hour.

He could just image how awful he must've looked to the people around him. Leather jacket, black sweatpants, sport trainers and socks, he didn't even want to think of how bad his face must've looked. Eyes red and puffy, hair probably a mess from the damp collar and not to mention the red nose from wiping it so often.

_Brits've got the monarchy, the US has the money but I know that you wanna be Canadian_- America dug his phone out of his jacket pocket before the song finished. He didn't want to hear any music at the moment. It reminded him of Iggy too much. He sniffled before he hit answer. He had wrapped the item in spellotape, hoping to protect it and channel magic around it. This seemed to have worked.

"America," he tried to sound as normal as possible, "Oh, hi Mattie … no, sorry I didn't know that yesterday was Monaco's birthday. I have found out where Arthur is. He's been sent to Azkaban... Canada, I know you're concerned but I really don't want to talk to anyone right now… Yes, even you… Bro, I don't want you to stay up. Why are you up anyway?... Well get off of facebook and go to bed already," Alfred rested his head on his knees and let out a sigh, "I'm gonna go, Matt… I will call you when I get some form of information. Bye."

He felt better, though, after listening to Matthew's gentle voice. Suddenly, America checked his watch.

"Crap! I need to set up for my first lesson..."g


	10. Chapter 9

**I hope this makes up for the crappy last chapter. I was trying to type on my Nokia Lumia, which whilst being a superb phone, is not large enough to accommodate my hands in the manner I am comfortable typing. Hehehe. I have now officially written my first even slightly *physical* scene... Of course, it is very vague and mild and rated T but still...**

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Alfred set out ten Quodpot broomsticks in a row in order to teach his first class, seventh year Magical Sports NEWT students. As the class was so small he was sure that he would be able to teach more practically than for his OWL students. A portable blackboard was also on the Quidditch pitch, chalk at the ready for the end of the class. Suddenly, America heard a chatter of voices and saw ten students entering the field, carrying brooms. They reached him and the noise died down somewhat.

"Okay, guys." Alfred started, looking at the six boys and four girls. "First things first, can you all put your brooms down at the edge of the pitch?"

They did so, whispering among themselves, and returned, looking at Alfred curiously. America noticed that one of the students, a caramel skinned blonde girl, was looking at him oddly, twirling a strand of hair around her index finger. He decided to ignore this strange action, perhaps it was merely her idiosyncrasy.

"Right." He licked his lips, mouth slightly dry. "This term we will be learning how to play Quodpot. This game is more popular in the States but is a key part of your Magical Sports theory paper - as you need to be able to outline the rules and basic gameplay manoeuvres and analyse why they are successful. I thought that learning the sport would probably be more fun than sitting in a classroom and talking about it. Any questions?"

One of the boys, a stocky redhead raised his hand. Alfred gestured towards him casually, leaning on one of the goalposts.

"I didn't know that there would be a theory paper." Nods and murmurs of assent greeted this.

"Well, um, Mr…"

"Weasley. George Weasley."

"Well, Mr Weasley, that isn't exactly a question, is it?"

"Well, sir, that isn't exactly an answer, is it?"

Alfred knew that he was being tested. He sighed and rubbed his glasses on his bomber jacket before replacing them on his nose.

"It may not be but I'm the teacher of this class and so my word is law."

"Pretty crappy law if you ask me." Another red-head spoke up, by the looks of it, the boy's twin.

Alfred could feel his heart thrumming against his ribcage. He acted like he wasn't put off.

"Another Weasley, eh? I think you're both in Gryffindor, am I right?"

"Yeah, what of it?" They spoke in tandem.

Alfred smiled his perfected, white, heroic smile. "You two are going to help me in a demonstration."

"What if we don't want to?" Asked George's twin, scowling.

"Then I'll take away as many house points as I see fit."

"We'll help."

Alfred picked up a Quodpot broom. Unlike a Quidditch broom, this was heavy, even for America. It had a small seat on it and leather loops that fastened around the rider's legs as they sat on the seat. The seat itself was cushioned with strong, magically reinforced leather. Alfred had marked where the students' hands should go with lacrosse tape wrapped around the broom handles.

"Right. George, come here." George cautiously approached the broom, which Alfred had let go of. It rose as he approached and began to emit a low hum. "Sit on it, don't be scared."

"T-that's what he said…" George mumbled, sitting on the seat and looking apprehensively at the straps.

America raised an eyebrow. "Put your left leg through the left hand strap and your right leg through the other…" He gestured to the other twin. "What's your name?"

"Fred."

"Right, Fred, good name by the way, sit on the other broom and do the same."

Fred did so and soon the Weasley twins were hovering slightly off the ground, hands clasped tightly around the marks on the handles.

"It's just like a normal Quidditch broom." America explained, correcting the two of their grips. "Alrighty, kick off and experiment with those."

The twins kicked off and hovered about ten metres above the class. They flew in a few circles and serpentines and then came to a stop about three minutes later when Professor Jones had finished explaining the details to the class.

"What next?" They both demanded.

Alfred smiled. He reached into one of the large bags that he had bought with him and bought out a large plastic jar filled with liquid and a crimson rugby ball. He took the ball out carefully, and with no real effort tossed it up to the hovering twins.

"Play catch."

The Weasleys tossed the ball between themselves, circling around and catching with well-practiced hands. The ball began to emit a high, quiet whine. The twins paused their game, George holding the ball.

"Keep going." Alfred advised.

They kept on throwing and catching, their fingers slipping on the now vibrating red ball. The whine got louder and louder. The two of them started to look exceedingly frightened as it became as loud as an ambulance siren and on Professor Jone's signal the rest of the class covered their ears. Suddenly, as Fred caught it, the ball exploded, flinging him off his broom.

Alfred laughed out loud as the class gave a collective gasp, gesturing to the slightly singed Weasley twin, who was safely caught from the dangerous fall by the two safety straps and was looking thunderstruck. He snapped his fingers and the broom floated back down, depositing the shocked seventeen year-old before coming to a rest on the ground. George landed easily, snorting with laughter at the sight of his twin, who had sat up, rubbing his ears.

"Are you okay?" Alfred asked, more seriously.

"That was…" Fred struggled to find the right words. "Amazing…"

George jumped in. "It was like exploding snap met Quidditch!"

The class clamoured for turns, being let up two at a time at first, then four, then eight and then ten. Soon they were all sitting in the air, tossing the Quod between them and laughing as it exploded in a 'Lee Jordan's' face. Just then, Alfred heard the bell ring.

"Oh shi-dear. Oh dear, you're going to be late for lunch!" He landed quickly and then snapped his fingers to summon the brooms to land. "Can someone help me get the brooms back to my office?"

"I will." The girl from the start of the class raised her hand.

"Thanks!"

As the rest of the group left, Alfred wrestled the Quodpot brooms into a large trunk on wheels. He gave the handle of this to the girl and picked up the bags of Quods and other equipment. He left the blackboard as it was needed in the next lesson. They walked up to the school in relative silence, save the chattering of birds and the squeak of the trunk's wheels.

As they shoved the Quodpot stuff into a cupboard Alfred had labelled 'Quodpot' in his loopy, childish cursive, the girl turned to face him. Alfred swore that she had undone the top button on her sports polo. She came very close to him.

America's eyes widened. "Um… Excuse me… Miss…"

"Guie. Melanie Guie." Her voice was seductive.

"Okay, Melanie, this is not appropriate." Alfred stammered.

She pressed herself closer. "How old are you, Mr Jones?"

"…Nineteen…" She was too close now; he could feel her hot breath on his neck. America felt exceedingly uncomfortable.

"I'm eighteen. How is that inappropriate?" Alfred licked his lips nervously.

"I'm your teacher, Melanie. Please be reasonable."

"You're not a teacher, Mr Jones. You're too nice to be a teacher…" Alfred stiffened at the flirty tones to her voice.

"This needs to stop now, before I call your head of house!" He tried to be firmer, voice catching sharply.

"Don't be sad, Mr Jones, no one likes seeing the hot new teacher sad…"

"No." Alfred backed up until he was by his desk.

"Is it about Mr Kirkland from last year? He was hot, is he related to you, Alfred F Jones?" She came up to him, straddling his leg. America was in a conundrum, he could not hit her or otherwise harm her as it was forbidden for teachers to lay a hand on the student in any situation. Yet he couldn't let this go on for the same reason. He didn't want to be with anyone but Arthur! They were too far away from the school for him to attract someone's attention.

He placed his hands on the girl's shoulders. "Melanie…" He pushed her off him. "No."

She backed off, eyes suddenly cold. Her hand darted to her front trouser pocket and before America knew what had hit him, he was face to face with a wand.

"Don't you dare." His voice grew stronger. "I will not allow such a flagrant breach of the rules. Fifty points from-"

She waved her wand, casting a powerful nonverbal spell. Alfred was pushed back against his desk and then fell to the floor, face up and as stiff as a board. Only his eyes could move as he saw the Slytherin seventh year approaching him.

"Oh, Professor Jones… You're a lot sexier when you don't speak."

Alfred could feel her hands on his chest, her lips on his. He couldn't close his eyes, staring at a spot on the wall above his head as he felt her hands on his body.

Suddenly, the door of the office burst open.

An apoplectically angry voice shattered the quiet room.

"MR JONES!"


	11. Chapter 10

**Filler chapter... It has literally taken me this long to recover from New Year. I feel like I have been run over with a steamroller. I can't even summon up the snideness to gloat about winning monopoly. On the plus side, my Prussia cosplay is almost done! I feel accomplished! Also I went to Oxford street and found the new Primark Harry Potter range. I shall now only wear Gryffindor tracksuits.**

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"MR JONES!"

Minerva McGonagall had been searching for the sports teacher for the past ten minutes. She had knocked on his bedroom door, checked the Great Hall and had even popped out to the Quidditch Pitch in order to look. She was just returning to the castle when she had heard a moan from the sports office. She had opened the door cautiously to see a bare chested Jones with a Slytherin sixth former on top of him. That was when she had made her exclamation.

The girl, Melanie something, who had been in her OWL transfiguration class, leapt off the man like she had been burnt and did up the top few buttons of her shirt. Jones lay there, unmoving. Minerva briefly wondered if he had fainted.

"Alfred Jones." She stated, venom in her voice. "Get up."

He did not. He lay there, chest barely moving, hands stiff at his sides. Minerva moved down next to him, feeling slightly more concerned. She moved her hand over his face, watching as he seemed not to be able to acknowledge it. She poked his shoulder - same reaction, or rather, lack of. She was able to physically move him with no reaction, as if he were a large doll or mannequin. Melanie had moved to the door and was quietly trying to sneak out.

Minerva pointed her wand at the door and it slammed shut, locking.

"You will stay here."

The girl shuddered at the tone. "I really need to go. I have DADA after lunch and I haven't packed."

Minerva smiled grimly, thin lipped. "If you want to pack your trunk right now then you are going the right way about it."

The girl walked slowly back into the room.

"What do you want?" It sounded too aggressive and McGonagall gave the girl a truly terrifying stare.

"I wish to know what has happened."

Melanie turned large innocent brown eyes on Minerva, face clear of any worry. There might even have been a tear or two in those glossy orbs.

"M-Mr Jones told me that I had to put away the Quodpot stuff so I followed him in here and he put the brooms down over there. He then locked the door and started to unbutton my shirt. I hexed him and then he fell over, I was checking that he was alive when you came in."

It sounded reasonable to Minerva. She turned her eyes on Alfred Jones, who had not moved due to the body bind. She quickly said the counter-curse and soon the feeling returned to Alfred's hands and feet, spreading from his extremities to his core. Quickly he leapt to his feet, feeling an all-consuming anger towards the brat.

"For the love of Hell, stop blaming me for everything. Will you never cease with your accusations? Am I the author of all evil that ever befell you, Melanie?"

"Mr Jones!"

"Lies." He exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "Surely you can see, Minerva, that I have been forced into an extremely uncomfortable position here. Surely you know what that vixen did to me once I was incapacitated!"

He lifted his shirt, baring his slightly tanned chest. Minerva could clearly see the faint outlines of bruises forming under the skin, of love bites and scratches.

She sucked a deep breath in, through her teeth. "I see."

The girl looked terrified. Minerva gazed coldly upon her. She strode to the small fireplace, took some powder from a pot on the mantelpiece and threw it upon the dancing flames.

"Severus." She said quietly yet firmly, "I wish to speak to you. Bring Albus."

There was a pregnant pause. Alfred was suddenly very much aware of the torn collar of his shirt. Soon – too soon, the door burst open and in swept Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore. Alfred blanched at the sight of the Headmaster.

"Hello, sir." He whispered, head down. Great. He'd ruined it. Dumbledore would think that he was too much trouble to keep on at the school after this fiasco. Why had he not just let it happen? Melanie was in full crying mode now, tears dripping effectively off the tip of her nose. America tried to hide his tall frame in the shadows of the office, acting nonchalant.

Snape broke the silence.

"So?"

"What?" America asked, feigning lightness.

"Why are we here?"

Minerva spoke. "This girl from your house attempted to rape Mr Jones here – casting a full body bind on him before forcibly removing his clothes."

"What?" Severus Snape spluttered.

"Yes. A Gryffindor would never-" Minerva started

"A Gryffindor is a mere puddle compared to how deep the Slytherins are."

"How deep their bloodlines run, you mean?" She was spitting now, obviously there was some tension between the two houses.

"Quiet." Dumbledore ordered and silence fell. He looked to the girl. "Melanie, is this true?"

"Yeah." She looked at her feet. "I couldn't help it."

America looked at her curiously. "Where are you from?"

"Idaho."

"Ah."

He hadn't thought. He hadn't realised. People were naturally attracted to their own nation, their nation being the exact personification of their idealised views. This would only be strengthened by the fact that they were both away from home.

"What, Alfred?" Minerva snapped, thin lipped.

"I… Understand…"

"What?" Asked Dumbledore, stroking his long silver beard.

"Basically – Long story…" He looked at Dumbledore, willing him to understand. "Gens Nexu."

"Hm?" Dumbledore frowned slightly, translating. "Where have I heard that before?"

" ' ." America mumbled quickly, so that Minerva, Melanie and Snape could not catch it.

Dumbledore's blue eyes sparkled with interest. "Really? That's powerful, old magic, Mr Jones. Can I… Would it be too intrusive of me to… Ask you a few questions later this year?"

"Fine." Alfred said, eyes on the girl, who was eyeing him hungrily. "Could you deal with that little problem first?"

"Definitely." Minerva cut in. "Poppy will be able to lighten the symptoms and modify her memory. You needn't worry, Alfred."

Snape smirked. "Strong symptoms, though. Too strong, I mean. I understand Gens Nexu as well as the next man but surely she would just be infatuated, not a raving loony. It seems to me as if she had been slipped a love potion…"

"What?" Alfred said, as all eyes turned to him.

"Not _you_." Snape drawled. "Who is in that class?"

"Um…" America racked his brains, trying to remember. "Okay. Obviously, her. Then I have Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordon, Zoe Stevens, Marcus Flint, Isabella Nettleton, Edmund Bowyer, Henry Smith and… Fred and George Weasley."

"What a class!" Minerva closed her eyes, trying to imagine it.

Snape merely let out a short snort of laughter at the idea of this new teacher managing all of those teenagers. Dumbledore's eyes grew even brighter but his voice was calm.

"I think that the two Weasley boys have a lot to answer to. Minerva, I'll leave that to you."

"Right, Albus." She turned to go.

"Oh, Minerva?" She turned her head. "Don't punish them too harshly."

"Right you are, Headmaster."

She left. Dumbledore turned to Snape.

"Severus, could you take Miss Guie down to the Hospital wing? Poppy will deal with her."

"Fine." Snape grabbed the girl by the arm, not too harshly, and led her from the room. Alfred exhaled through his teeth.

"Glad that's over."

Dumbledore walked over to him, eyes soft.

"Alfred…"

"What?" America asked, wondering why the man was being so gentle.

"So, this morning you were in too much of a state to fully take in the news but there is an interesting article in the Daily Prophet."

"Honestly sir, I doubt it." Alfred stared at the offered magazine in distaste.

"No, Alfred." Dumbledore pressed on. "It's about Arthur."


	12. Chapter 11

**And they're back! Got to love those adorable countries... until they kill you and make cupcakes out of your corpse. Ah, I'd still go out with them. (Note to self: Author is very lonely.) ****SoulxMakaLover37****, I tip my hat to you for the extra research. **

Arthur was reclining on the simple mattress in his cell, tracing the lines of scars along his wrists with one obsessive finger. He looked strangely feline in the gloom, large green eyes slightly clouded yet sharper than they had been in a while.

He stood up, stretched and started to walk up and down the cell, pushing once on the door and sighing with frustration. He could hear the mewlings of the other prisoners, screams and howls that seemed to be even louder and more irritating than usual.

"It burns!"

"My Lord will come for me!"

"Let me out!"

"I'm going to die in this rotten tomb!"

"SHUT UP!" Arthur snapped, kicking the wall. Silence for a moment, and then the renewal of the screeches.

The ever-present dementors were surprisingly absent, though for how long England didn't know. They were likely wandering another hallway of the prison. Not that he cared where the dementors were, as long as they weren't anywhere near him. Their absence made his mind clearer than normal, but there still seemed to be large blank periods in his memories, which, he though, must be where all his good memories were supposed to go.

Arthur blinked as the cell suddenly grew very much lighter than it had been just seconds before. It took a moment, with his fuzzy mind, to figure out why. The sun was shining through the small crack that was supposed to suffice as a window.

Confused as to how this was even possible, he stared at the light. He hadn't seen light like that in so long...

The sunlight never came through that window. Or, at least, it hadn't for as long as England could remember.

Still, he could see colour. It wasn't just grey anymore. The sun lit up the water around the island prison, turning it blue and almost clear enough to see through all the way to the bottom. A bright blue sky was filled with only puffy white clouds, and a warm breeze filtered through the windows, startling him as its presence confirmed that what he was seeing wasn't actually an illusion. He could feel it. It had to be real.

"Arthur?"

England flinched and turned around, and as he did, the beam of sunlight that he had seen come through the window abruptly disappeared, being replaced by the usual darkness. He could hear a storm raging outside, and drops of rain leaked in from the crack of a window.

Okay, so maybe it had been illusion... That couldn't be good.

"England?"

Arthur looked up, suddenly realising why he had been knocked out of that illusion in the first place. Someone was calling his name.

Outside his cell was a man with light pinkish hair. He stared at him, looking concerned. Behind him was another man, a darkish redhead, who looked tall and foreboding in the shadows of the hallway. Unlike the pink haired man, who Arthur thought he slightly recognised, he was a complete stranger.

Arthur studied them, trying to figure out why they had come to visit him. He noticed, after a long moment, that both were wearing death-eater robes.

"We're going to get you out of here, Arthur. I promise," the pink haired man stated, still frowning.

England stared at him, uncomprehendingly. Why would they help him out? He belonged here, didn't he? No one would willingly let a traitor out.

Not wanting to search very deep into his memories for fear of what he might find, he silently took his word on it, and then turned away without replying, taking a seat back on his mattress.

"I don't think he even recognised me," the first man's voice murmured, sounding confused.

"He will," the other voice came, though he sounded unsure.

The door opened. Arthur shied back, away from the two people entering. The smaller knelt in front of him and looked deep into his eyes. This man's eyes were electric blue but strangely familiar.

"Arthur… Can you remember my name, poppet?"

England bit his lip slightly, lost in not-quite memories, floating in his mind.

"A-Arthur?"

"No, silly. Oliver. Do you remember me?"

Arthur blinked. His vision seemed to suddenly clear.

"Oliver!"

He backed away, instantly defensive, remembering the last time they'd met.

_It was almost like a dance now, a dance so horrible, so dangerous that a misstep could be fatal. The two countries approached each other and then turned away. Arthur soon found his sight to be failing with sheer exhaustion. Please could someone come… quickly! His every move felt weighted and slow and the light sword felt like a tonne in his shaking hands. A parry, a lunge, twice they circled each other, neither quite managing to maintain a lead but Arthur was failing fast. A nick on his neck alerted him to the fact that this could end badly. His fight returned briefly, the adrenaline soon waning._

_Arthur suddenly lurched forward, his 2P having kicked his legs out from underneath him. He watched in muted horror as the sword was brought up to his neck, just below the jawline. _

_"__I am death." Oliver hissed._

Shallow breaths rattled through his thin frame. Arthur realised that he would not stand up to a fight against the other man who wasn't even very strong. Italy would probably be able to conquer him in this state.

"Looks like he remembers you." Said the red-head flippantly, removing his sunglasses and revealing a pair of blood red eyes.

"Quiet!" Oliver snapped, pouting. "Artie, be reasonable. We departed on much better terms than we left, remember? You rescued me?"

_"__You've told us enough." Arthur looked out of the window, the darkness was lightening. "Come on. If I am to live, you have to live, am I correct?"_

_Oliver nodded. "Yes. The 1Ps and 2Ps are the essentially same people."_

_England looked startled for a second. "Does that mean that I would be capable of… of all of that?"_

_Oliver smiled slightly. "I think so, poppet. However, there is one key difference between us. You feel remorse. I do not. I may regret my actions but I am never sorry that I did them. In my heart of hearts, I love myself, I know that what I do can occasionally be wrong but I will always forgive myself. You, however, hold grudges against yourself. You do not forgive. On the outside you present a stable, calm façade but on the inside, my dear, you are more dangerous than I am. You loathe yourself."_

_ "__Enough of that!" England snapped, going very pale. "No more. You are wrong."_

_"__Am I?"_

_The silence lingered._

_"__Yes." England said, not looking at Oliver. "You can't be right."_

"Why are you here?" Arthur asked, voice somewhat steady.

"Orders from the Dark Lord, idiot." The red-head drawled. "If we manage to get you out of here and turn you into Voldemort then we'll benefit from it when he succeeds in taking over the world."

"Allen!"

"Oh get back in the kitchen, Oliver!"

Oliver scowled. "Rude."

"I'm not going to the bloody Dark Lord!" Arthur exclaimed, eyes flashing at the 2Ps.

"Shhh." Oliver hushed him, still glaring at Allen.

"NO!"

A baseball bat with rusty nails hammered into it found its way to Arthur's face, right over his nose.

"Be quiet, Archie."

England glared at him. "It's Arthur."

"Whatever. Do you want me to pound your face concave or not?"

"Oh God." Arthur shuddered at the thought.

"Don't believe in it." Allen took the bat away from Arthur's nose.

"People who cease to believe in God or goodness altogether still believe in the devil... Evil is always possible. And goodness is eternally difficult." Oliver smirked, straightening his bow tie. "Let's go."

"No."

"Don't be a fool for the Devil, darling."

Oliver and Allen grasped Arthur between them and then apparated.


	13. Chapter 12

***slinks in* Sorry... I may have left that a teeny bit too long... It's a great chapter but probably not worth such a long wait. So, anyway, I'm imagining Oliver as having a Northern accent if Arthur speaks in RP. It just seems like that would be natural. Oh, yes, new headcanon - in civil wars, the nations battle their 2Ps! I just thought of it, if anyone wants to write a fanfic on it then make like a fish and let minnow (punderful) so I can read it!**

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_"__Move." Arthur felt a sharp jab in his back, quite probably from a baseball bat._

_"__Ouch! You bloody pillock!"_

_"__Language, poppet." Oliver said in a honeyed voice._

_"__Don't get me started with you…" The further away from Azkaban they were, the more England could feel his strength return. He could almost feel the magic flowing back into his body. "When I am through with you, Oliver, there will be a little pile of pink cashmere and a singular whiff of cupcake batter for your loved ones to collect at their leisure."_

_Another jab in his back. This time, Arthur could feel the cold of a knife against his skin. He shuddered away from it, but was held in a surprisingly firm grip by the aforementioned cashmere wearing man._

_"__Careful, duckie. If you don't tread carefully then I might just…" Oliver's knife traced a scar on Arthur's back. "…snap."_

_Arthur licked his lips nervously and waited for the slight pressure to recede. It soon did and he let out a short sigh of relief._

_"__Looks like he's nice and calm now." Oliver's visage was suddenly sunny again, "Don't you think, Allen?"_

_"__Looks like the little 1P has been subdued." Allen admitted grudgingly. "Well done, Oliver."_

_England clucked his tongue, straightening his back._

_"__You can't subdue the British Empire! The sun shall never set upon my glorious years, sure, some may say that the empire is gone, they ARE WRONG! You can't hold me down, 2Ps. I know that you are supposedly stronger but, as they say, brains before brawn!"_

_He attempted to disapperate but before he could turn ninety degrees, he felt his left wrist be tugged downwards as something heavy was fastened to it._

_"__Cheeky…" Allen grinned, raising the bat._

_"__No! Allen, you wazzock, we need to keep him conscious!" Oliver screeched, as the nail-driven wood smacked into Arthur's head with a thwack._

_Arthur keeled over backwards, dimly aware of an excruciating pain in his head._

Harry Potter woke up, gasping for breath. He grasped in the pitch blackness of the dormitory for his sheets, only to smack his head on the bedpost and tumble onto the carpet in a tangle of legs and sheets.

"'Arry, mate, you a'right?" Ron's sleep filled voice croaked.

Harry only then realised that he must have called out, either in his sleep or when he had fallen out of bed.

"Fell out of bed."

But Ron was snoring again. Harry stood up, brushing down his lime pyjamas and dumped his duvet in a messy pile on the bed, blanket on top. He crept to the stairwell and started to go down the stairs, shaken fingers gripping the bannister tightly.

He knew where he had to go.

It was only the third day of term, yet he knew that Mr Jones would be very interested in what he had to say, particularly as it involved Professor Kirkland, the green-eyed Assistant Teacher from last year. Mr Jones had declined to teach his fourth year class on the first day of term, retiring to his room, in what Dumbledore called 'compassionate leave'. There was only one thing that could have caused it. Harry had noticed what his classmates had not. A small corner article in the daily prophet spoke of the 'unscheduled release' of a high security Azkaban prisoner. An A. Kirkland.

That must have meant an escape, the ministry covering their tracks. It would not have looked good to lose two high security inmates in two years. Harry pulled the invisibility cloak out from his locker and draped it over his shoulders as he left the room, covering his head as he swung the Fat Lady open.

"Who's there?" She demanded haughtily, painted eyes searching for the misbehaving student. "I warn you, I could tell the headmaster…"

Harry ignored her and pulled the cloak about him, breaking into a run.

His bare feet made muffled taps on the cold stone floors, sliding slightly as he tried to grip with his toes. The fifteen year-old wheezed with exertation as he rounded a corner and climbed a staircase at breakneck speed, willing his feet to move faster, to propel him to his goal.

He saw the painting of a skink in a tutu and felt in his pocket for the knife that Sirius had given him last year, that could cut through any material and undo any lock. He slipped it between the door and frame and wriggled it up and down until he heard a soft click. He stepped over the threshold.

Alfred F Jones had been having a perfectly pleasant night. He had gone to bed at a decent hour, tired by a day of teaching first-years to sit on broomsticks, and had even taken Arthur's age old solution of having a mug of hot milk with camomile tea in it to help him drift off.

However, that good night of sleeping was to be interrupted, apparently, by an apparition in his doorway.

"HOLY MOTHER OF SHIPPING!" America yelped, seeing the small figure in pyjamas silhouetted against the doorway. "Stay back, I have a wand."

He grappled in futility on his bedside table, where there should have been his glasses and wand. He soon found his glasses but his wand was on his desk. His heart sank. The ghost would surely be a malevolent one, one thousand times worse than those in the Great Hall. America knew that what he was dealing with here must be a spirit.

"Sir?" The voice was tentative.

America lit the lamp and the room flickered into colour. The first he saw was a pair of light green eyes. Eyes that reminded him so much of… yes, well, that was best left for when he was alone to brood over. He took a closer look. It was Harry Potter.

"Harry, you scared me!" Alfred gasped, adjusting his glasses with one hand and peering at the fifth former. "What's wrong? Why are you here?"

The boy paused for a moment. "I- you see, sir, I had a bad dream."

"Oh?" America couldn't think why the boy would be here of all places, why had he not gone to Minerva?

"I came to you," Honestly, it was like Harry could read his mind. "Because it was about Arthur."

Alfred flinched slightly at the name.

"Oh." He repeated.

"You see, sir, I think it might be real."

America looked at the teenager in amazement.

"Eh, what?"

"I think that the dream might have actually taken place." Harry replied earnestly.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Alfred asked gently. "Did you fall out of bed and hit your head?"

"Yeah, I did, but I'm fine! I think that Arthur may have been kidnapped from Azkaban…"

America looked the boy squarely in the eyes.

"Harry, we both have to accept this now, Arthur is gone. He may come back, he may not. I know that you felt particularly close to him last year but the fact is, he attacked a human - muggle, I mean. That is unacceptable. We need to let it go, okay?"

"But, sir." Harry protested. "This really happened! They are taking him to the Dark Lord! Oliver and Allen."

Alfred vaguely recognised the names but paid it no heed.

"Shhh." He murmured, taking the boy's temperature. "It'll be fine. Come on, Harry." He got out of bed, showing garish hamburger pyjamas. "I'm taking you to the hospital wing."

"I'm telling the truth." Harry snapped, green eyes blazing.

"I know you had a dream, Harry. You're a little warm, it was just a hallucination. You saw Arthur in the Daily Prophet and your mind linked it to this. It happens to us all. Let's go, you can have a fever reduction potion and a bed for the night, where Madame Pomfrey can take care of you. Sound good, right?"

"Stop patronising me!" Harry was shaking with rage.

"Harry, I'm being perfectly reasonable here. You are sick. You need to rest."

"No!"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Harry." Alfred's voice was a little sharper now.

Harry huffed and rolled his eyes. "Okay then, **_America, _**I need your help to find **_England_**."

America stared at him, dumbly.

"You know?"

"Found out when facing Voldemort last year, after that it was sort of obvious, you and he being… you know… an item. You had to be America if he was England."

The boy swayed on his feet. His face had rapidly grown ashen.

"I think I might take you up on that offer of a bed in the hospital wing."

His eyes clouded over slightly and, without warning, he fell back onto the floor in an exhausted faint.

"Harry!" Alfred checked the boy's pulse. He was fine, just unconscious. America took the shimmery silver cloak from Harry's cold hands and placed it in a draw of his dresser – it looked expensive. He then scooped the boy up and walked down the corridor, mind racing.

Were the dreams real?

Was Harry just making things up?

What on Earth was that silver cloak?


	14. Chapter 13

**I'm back! You missed me and my awesomeness! Happy Birthday Prussia, Haps baps and all of the rest. I have been a busy person and that's why I'm updating at 9:50PM on a Sunday. Fun. **

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"So." Alfred looked over the top of his glasses at the unfortunate George Weasley. "You thought that this would be funny, eh? What a laugh."

The redhead stared back at him, blankly. Alfred made a clucking noise in the back of his throat and raised his eyebrows, gesturing for the seventh year to speak.

"Go on. Give your fantastically good excuse for slipping Melanie Guie a love potion. I'm dying to hear it."

"I-I…" The boy's throat sounded dry and strained. America masked his concern, sliding over a glass of water with an impassionate hand. George took it gratefully and then gulped the entirety of it down in two swigs. "I d-didn't."

It wasn't convincing.

America rolled his eyes. "Sure you didn't. I assume that the extremely talented young girl just happened to suddenly pick up a strong infatuation with me?"

"Yeah."

"George." Alfred clarified, "I'm going to Grimmauld Place for Christmas with you. If you don't want Molly to know…"

"No!"

"Then tell me. Heaven knows I don't bite."

"I can't." George spluttered.

"You know…" Alfred said craftily. "Fred has already told me."

"But he told me that if I told- Oh. Very clever, Mr Jones."

"Thanks, I don't usually get enough credit for it. Anyway. What did Fred tell you to do?"

"Nothing." George protested. Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"Really? The same 'nothing' that meant that at the last night before term started you couldn't sleep and had to get a hot milk from the kitchen, regardless of the rats and doxies? Ah, that is the sort of casual beginning of a new term that everyone wishes for, don't you think?" At George's stare he smiled. "Your mother told me to keep an eye on you two. She's worried about you both."

"Worried, why?"

America looked at George carefully. "Well. You've become a lot more withdrawn and quiet whilst Fred has become louder and more disruptive. It doesn't take a genius to work out that something is up."

"I can't say."

"I can force you." Alfred said reasonably.

"You can't, you're a teacher!"

"I'm a teacher, yes, but no one would blame me." He countered, still mild.

"No."

Alfred reached in his desk, feigning looking for his wand. "Where is it…?

"Fine." George snapped. America looked up. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

"Elaborate?"

"Okay, so basically, Fred is generally perfect. He is everyone's favourite twin. When people talk about us it's always 'Fred and George', not George and Fred. He's smarter, he gets all the girls, he could have the pick of practically anyone to date. I'm known as Fred's twin. I always feel like I'm worthless when I'm with him. All of our friends like him better than me. I just feel like I'm invisible sometimes, you know, when he is taking up so much space in their heads that there is none for me. It's not malicious! He just genuinely doesn't get why I feel so depressed when I'm around him and makes me stay where I'll always be in his shadow. It's not easy being the less noticed twin."

"Oh." Alfred breathed, the pieces clicking into place.

"It's just… When I act up suddenly the focus is on me, and what makes me tick. My family view us both as a disappointment but at least they know that I'm here. I guess I'm lucky that I was born now and not hundreds of years ago. I don't think I'd have had a chance back then, when children were seen and not heard. I would become invisible. That's why I go along with all of these hair-brained schemes. At least, when I'm suspended, Mum will look me directly in the eyes and talk to me instead of to us." He paused for breath. "…Wow. I guess that's been a long time coming."

"You needed to talk." America nodded. "You needed someone to find out what was bothering you instead of having to be told."

"Yeah." George was quiet.

"You know…" America began, "I'm a twin, so I know what you're feeling. Well, most of it."

"Two of _you_?" George muttered, just slightly too loudly. "Oh, sorry."

"Yup. Me and my bro, Mattie!" America beamed, mouth aching at the forced repetitive action. "Tell you what… People say that I'm loud and sorta obnoxious, I know, as if, right? But anyway, maybe he knows what you're feeling. People ALWAYS call him Alfred and he's shy and stuff. Do you want his address?"

"That would be good, sir, thank you." Said George, slightly more respectfully.

"Awesome!" Alfred scribbled Canada's address on a scrap of paper with a biro and handed it to George. "Just tell him I told you to. He lives alone so I'm sure he'll love a pen-pal."

"Thanks." George said, standing to go.

"Oh, wait!" America said, hurriedly. "Minerva told me to tell you that under no account are you allowed to sell, test or use your products whilst at school, unless you are to place a 'puking pastille' into our dear DADA teacher's tea. I believe that she's making herself quite unpopular."

"Will do!" George gave a mock salute. "Good class, Mr Jones. See you!"

He left.

"See ya." Alfred murmured, leaning back in his chair and shielding his eyes. It was only the second week and already he was exhausted. He soon drifted off into an uneasy sleep. His dream was not a pleasant one.

_A man was shouting. The sound echoed throughout the high ceilinged room._

_"__You can't bloody do this to me. No! I refuse. Kill me now or LET ME GO!"_

_A high, cold laugh._

_"__England, have you not learnt your lesson? Crucio."_

_The man screamed and twitched as he fell to the floor. His eyes rolled back into his head. His limbs seized up and shiny tears joined the salty tracks down his face. Suddenly, he stopped. He shakily pulled himself off the ground and faced the direction from which the voice had come._

_"__It appears that I have not, Voldemort. You can hold me captive but no one will come for me, you can count on that. They promised. You can't get any further."_

_A tall, thin man stood next to England. His fingers caressed the dirty face of the former empire. _

_"__What light is to the eyes - what air is to the lungs - what love is to the heart, liberty is to the soul of man. I can get you to do whatever I wish, Arthur. I can mould you into MY nation."_

_"__No – No man has any authority over his other men!" Arthur shouted. "Bastard!"_

_"__I will be immortal, England, you can't stop me!"_

_"__You fool." England said quietly. "The person who has lived the most is not the one with the most years but the one with the richest experiences. Live a rich life, Tom, by all means, just don't kill my people in order to get more."_

_"__You've killed more than me, England." Voldemort sneered. "You are just as bad as I am. Come over to my side."_

_"__I may be no better than you, but at least I'm different." Shrugged the nation, wincing._

_"__I kill for my cause."_

_"__Political language... is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind._ _In our age there is no such thing as 'plain politics'. All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred and schizophrenia. I will never follow your cause, Voldemort. You'll have to command my cold dead ashes."_

_The room was silent for a second, then the screaming started again. _


	15. Chapter 14

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It was October the first when Harry noticed it.

Umbridge was smiling. That was not a good sign.

She had also wrapped a friendly arm around Mr Jones's back.

He didn't look very comfortable.

Harry, Ron and Hermione had expected to have to comb Hermione's Daily Prophet carefully next morning to find what she was looking so smug about. However, the departing delivery owl had barely cleared the top of the milk jug when Hermione let out a huge gasp and flattened the newspaper to reveal a large photograph of Dolores Umbridge, smiling widely and blinking slowly at them from beneath the headline.

**MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST EVER HIGH INQUISITOR**

'Umbridge - "High Inquisitor"?' said Harry darkly, his half-eaten piece of toast slipping from his fingers. 'What does that mean?'

' "That's how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts," said Fudge last night. "Dumbledore couldn't find anyone so the Minister put in Umbridge, and of course, she's been an immediate success – The ministry has been worried about magic in Britain for some time now, through Dolores we hope to take a firmer grip on the magical heart of the nation, to harness the power." '

"WHAT?' said Harry loudly.

Hermione finished reading and looked across the table at the other two.

'So now we know how we ended up with Umbridge! Fudge passed this "Educational Decree" and forced her on us! And…" She read for a second "Now he's given her the power to inspect the other teachers! It's outrageous!' Hermione was breathing fast and her eyes were very bright.

"I know." Agreed Harry.

But a grin was unfurling on Ron's face.

'What?' said Harry and Hermione together, staring at him.

'Oh, I can't wait to see McGonagall inspected,' said Ron happily. 'Umbridge won't know what's hit her.'

'Well, come on,' said Hermione, jumping up, 'we'd better get going, if she's inspecting Mr Jones's class we don't want to be late . . .'

They arrived on the Quidditch pitch, Hermione trembling slightly. She didn't like flying, however, Magical Sports OWL was rather well thought of so she abstained from commenting and dealt with her nerves. The large class gathered around the Broom Bin, some grabbing school brooms, others proudly polishing their own sticks.

Alfred Jones rushed onto the pitches, carrying a Quaffle and two bludger cases, looking slightly agitated.

"Hi!" He beamed rather frantically at them. "I have just been told that we are expecting a visitor… This promises to be a fun, _orderly_ afternoon, don't you guys think?"

They caught the emphasis and nodded. Mr Jones grinned. Suddenly, Harry caught sight of Professor Umbridge picking her way across the mud towards them, pink heels sinking into the frozen grass.

'Good afternoon, Mr Jones,' said Professor Umbridge with her wide, fake smile. "You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?'

Jones nodded awkwardly and, looking very disgruntled, gestured for her to sit in the stands. Still smiling, Professor Umbridge stayed where she was. She then conjured a chair, sat down, took her clipboard from her flowery bag and looked up expectantly, waiting for the class to begin.

Mr Jones raised an eyebrow and turned to the class, an enthusiastic smile on his face.

'Right! We're going to be learning basic Quaffle techniques today – simple enough, but I want to drill them into you guys before we get onto the more complex stuff.'

He tossed the ball at Dean Thomas, who caught it, and threw it to Seamus, who threw it to Neville and so on. They stood there for ten minutes, just chucking the Quaffle around, warm breath steaming into the air in front of them. Harry's fingers were a curious combination of warm and icy, which he attributed to doing a warm up in freezing weather. The only person to drop the ball was Hermione, who turned scarlet and mumbled an apology before throwing it almost into Ron's face.

"Hem, hem."

"I'm sorry?" Mr Jones turned to face Umbridge, "You said something?"

"No…" She smiled, amphibiously. "I just wished to check that you were paying attention."

She made a note on her clipboard.

"Alright." Mr Jones seemed rather confused. "So, you didn't wanna, you know, say something?"

"No."

"Fine!" The nineteen year old clapped his hands in the cold weather, causing Hermione to almost drop the Quaffle again. "Chuck me the Quaffle, Ms Granger! Whoa, mind my head! Well, at least you can throw… We might do some class work on _aim_. I want you all to grab your broom, making sure that you've taped the handle, and fly around the pitches four times to get used to it."

"Damn." Harry groaned, looking at his non-taped Firebolt.

"Yeah, you, Mr Potter! Question?" Mr Jones asked brightly.

"Do I have to tape my handle?" Harry rolled his eyes slightly. "I don't want to damage the varnish."

"It's a broom, Potter. You need to wrap the handle in lacrosse tape so that your hands have some grip."

Harry held his broom tightly. "But it's a Firebolt!"

"So is mine." Mr Jones smiled. "Trust me, the varnish will hold up to some muggle adhesive."

"Okay." Harry said, quickly wrapping some red fabric tape around the broom-handle. "If not – you're paying."

He kicked off and joined the others, faster on his clearly superior broom. As he came towards Mr Jones again, on his first loop, he saw them talking, Mr Jones and Umbridge, catching a snippet on the breeze."

'Now,' said Umbridge, looking up at Mr Jones, 'you've been in this post how long, exactly?'

The man looked uncomfortable, mumbling a something that Harry could not hear. Umbridge smirked and said something else. As Mr Jones was replying, Harry remembered something. He had one of the Weasley twins' extendable ears in his trouser pocket! Bending low against the wind, he fished it out, pressing the soft plug into his ear and hearing the two teachers' voices, clear as day.

"Quite a period,' said Professor Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. "So it was Professor Dumbledore who appointed you?'

"Yeah, that's right,' said Mr Jones shortly.

Professor Umbridge made another note.

"Anything special about you?"

"Yes," said Jones, holding his head a little higher and grinning. "I am Alfred F Jones. Who wouldn't want me to teach them? I'm the hero!"

Another note on the clipboard. Professor Umbridge's toadlike smile widened.

"Of course," she said sweetly, making yet another note. "Well, if you could just prove your expertise in this subject?" And she looked up enquiringly, still smiling. The class had landed now, Harry ripped the extendible ear out of his own and looked on in interest.

Mr Jones gave an easy, slightly puzzled smile. 'I don't understand you,' He said, frowning slightly at Umbridge. "You want me to fly?"

"Yes, I'd like you to fly for me," said Professor Umbridge very clearly, as if Mr Jones was not only deaf but senile.

"But, I don't have my broom! Also, how do I prove my expertise? Do you want me to do a fruking loop-the-loop? Why should I prove my worth to you?"

"I see," said Professor Umbridge softly, making yet another note on her clipboard.

"I - but - but . . . Fine!" said Jones suddenly, grabbing a broom in one hand from the bin. "Fine. I'll prove my worth, 'High Inquisitor!'"

He kicked off from the frozen ground. The class stared in admiration as he shot around the pitch, getting more out of a Shooting Star than they had ever seen. He circled around, and then stopped, hovering above them.

"Catch!" Sang Professor Umbridge. Mr Jones rolled his eyes, obviously expecting the reddish Quaffle. However, Umbridge was busy with the clasp of a bludger case.

"Don't do that!" He commanded, from the air.

Umbridge loosed the bludger. "Whoops! Silly me. Oh, Mr Jones, will you be alright?"

Mr Jones dodged the quicksilver fast bludger as it flew at him, rolling slightly on the broom. His fingers slipped slightly on the un-taped handle, causing him to pull up on it, tugging the broom higher.

"Jeez! That was completely uncalled for!" He shot down at her. "Get it back in! Now."

"I can't." She batted her eyelashes innocently. "I don't know how."

In this moment of distraction the bludger shot at Mr Jones, grazing the small of his back. Mr Jones gave a slight cry, leant on the nose of his broom and fell into a dive, icy fingers sliding on the slick varnish of the broom.

"He's going to crash!" Parvati Patil shrieked.

"No!" A Slytherin boy shouted.

"What do we do? What do we do?" Lavender Brown panicked.

A loud bang. The Shooting Star had hit the frozen pitch, cracking in half upon impact and throwing Mr Jones off in a shower of splintered wood and golden sparks. The man lay motionless on the ground.

"Oh no!" Pansy Parkinson gasped.

"I think…" Malfoy started.

"He's dead!" Neville whimpered.

"Stop it!" Snapped Hermione.

Harry had been standing there, but suddenly rushed forwards, Ron and Hermione at his heels. He came to the recumbent teacher and touched his shoulder with his hand, just lightly. The man moved slightly and let out a low whoosh through his teeth.

"Yikes." He groaned, sitting up. "That was one quick bludger."

"You're fine." Harry said, with relief.

"Sure I am." Jones grinned, clutching his head, where a nasty lump was forming. "I'm the hero, aren't I?"

"You have blood in your hair." Hermione mentioned matter of factly.

"She's got a real eye for people having dirty faces." Explained Ron. "I once didn't wash my nose and she's still harping on about it! It was my first day of school, how should I-"

"Wait, where's Umbridge?" Harry asked, missing the DADA teacher from where she had been standing just moments earlier.

Hermione looked behind them and let out a strangled hiss, like a cat. "That bitch."

The woman's pink coat was disappearing behind the closing oak front doors.


	16. Chapter 15

***Hello, my name is Elder Price and I would like to share with you the most AMAZING book...* Sorry, I have a dress rehearsal for my theatre's Cabaret night tomorrow so I've been busy. I'm doing Book of Mormon and it's going to be brilliant fun (most of the songs I'm singing are less straight than Hetalia), you should definitely watch the musical! So... re: this chapter... My Shakespearean English is rusty so it's not perfect.**

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She was humming and smiling to herself when they entered the room. Harry and Ron told Hermione, who had been in Arithmancy, exactly what had happened in Divination while they all took out their copies of Defensive Magical Theory, but before Hermione could ask any questions Professor Umbridge had called them all to order and silence fell.

'Wands away,' she instructed them all with a smile, and those people who had been hopeful enough to take them out, sadly returned them to their bags. 'As we finished Chapter One last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen today and commence "Chapter Two, Common Defensive Theories and their Derivation". There will be no need to talk.'

Still smiling her wide, self-satisfied smile, she sat down at her desk. The class gave an audible sigh as it turned, as one, to page nineteen. Harry wondered dully whether there were enough chapters in the book to keep them reading through all this year's lessons and was on the point of checking the contents page when he noticed that Hermione had her hand in the air again.

Professor Umbridge had noticed, too, and what was more, she seemed to have worked out a strategy for just such an eventuality. Instead of trying to pretend she had not noticed Hermione she got to her feet and walked around the front row of desks until they were face to face, then she bent down and whispered, so that the rest of the class could not hear, 'What is it this time, Miss Granger?'

'I've already read Chapter Two,' said Hermione.

'Well then, proceed to Chapter Three.'

'I've read that too. I've read the whole book.'

Professor Umbridge blinked but recovered her poise almost instantly.

'Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counter-jinxes in Chapter Fifteen.'

'He says that counter-jinxes are improperly named,' said Hermione promptly. 'He says "counter-jinx" is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable.'

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows and Harry knew she was impressed, against her will.

'But I disagree,' Hermione continued.

Professor Umbridge's eyebrows rose a little higher and her gaze became distinctly colder.

'You disagree?' she repeated.

'Yes, I do,' said Hermione, who, unlike Umbridge, was not whispering, but speaking in a clear, carrying voice that had by now attracted the attention of the rest of the class. 'Mr Slinkhard doesn't like jinxes, does he? But I think they can be very useful when they're used defensively.'

'Oh, you do, do you?' said Professor Umbridge, forgetting to whisper and straightening up. 'Well, I'm afraid it is Mr Slinkhard's opinion, and not yours, that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger.'

'But - ' Hermione began.

That is enough,' said Professor Umbridge. She walked back to the front of the class and stood before them, all the jauntiness she had shown at the beginning of the lesson gone. 'Miss Granger, I am going to take five points from Gryffindor house.'

There was an outbreak of muttering at this.

'What for?' said Harry angrily.

'Don't you get involved!' Hermione whispered urgently to him.

'For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions,' said Professor Umbridge smoothly. 'I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand very little. Your previous teachers in this subject may have allowed you more licence, but as none of them - with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects - would have passed a Ministry inspection - '

The class left it at that. Umbridge was holding a whiteboard rubber in a way comparable to a highly powered grenade. Harry yawned, turning the pages of the Slinkhard book with a weary hand, eyes glancing over the letters – completely exhausted after the taxing Quidditch session.

_If only this lesson could finally end… _He thought, looking at the clock. _Just get to break already…_

Never had a brief span seem like an eternity. As he felt consciousness ebbing away, as clear and concise as it was mere moments ago, it was coming to an end. Harry's eyes grew heavy from the soft sunlight shining into the classroom. He was struck with incoherence, an inconsistency to his thoughts, leaning a weary shoulder against the wall. His eyes slid closed.

_A door._

_A corridor._

_A corridor leading to a lone black door._

_Harry sped up as he approached it, longing to feel the cool smoothness of the handle, to turn it, to open the door. He was almost there. His feet sped up, his heart pounded. Harry stood in front of the door. His hand reached out..._

_The cool metal shocked him for a second. Until that point he could have sworn that he was in a dream. He gripped it firmly and twisted, pulling the door open._

_Inside there was a circular table. A very small table. Old fashioned oil lamps were hung on the walls, and the floor was pitching and rolling in the oddest way, as if for all the world, he was on a boat. Harry then saw the chair. In the corner of the room there were two chairs._

_One had a man in it, semi-conscious, short brown hair damp with sweat. He was a curious shade of white, an odd pale that contrasted sharply with his dark hair. His shirt was ripped down the front, coat discarded to the other end of the room and something dark stained its off-white satin._

_A loud bang. _

_The man in the chair looked up, light grey-green eyes suddenly wary. He stood up, striding across the room, passing through Harry. He picked up the coat, searching vainly through the pockets, looking in futility for something. _

_A loud crash._

_The brunette grabbed a letter-opener off the table and inspected it._

_"__Dios mío…" He hissed, biting off one end of the thin wood to create a sharp blade. "Oh, Lovino… Lo siento."_

_The door opened. Harry turned to see a blonde man in a splendid red coat standing at the bottom of some steps that surely hadn't been there before. The blonde smirked and entered the room, causing the brunette to almost drop his makeshift weapon._

_"__Hola." The blonde hummed in a sinister, eloquent voice. "I see that thou hast awoken, Espanol."_

_"__I abhore you." Spat the brunette in heavily accented English._

_"__Then we understand each other perfectly. Thou wot me so well, Antonio."_

_"__Arthur! Let me go!"_

_Harry gasped. The blonde man was none other than Arthur Kirkland. But he looked younger, eighteen at most. His easy arrogance and swagger reminded Harry of the Slytherins. But even Draco Malfoy wouldn't be have this casual dominance, this veiled aggression._

_"__But I cannot." Arthur sighed, looking with smug faux sadness at Antonio. "Thy armada hath caus'd me much ado. I think thou ne'd to be amerced."_

_Harry knew that Arthur was the country of England. Then Antonio must be… Spain? By the language this must be Elizabethan or Tudor England. He stepped forward. No one took notice of him._

_Arthur, or rather, England, put the sharp edge of a cutlass next to Antonio's cheek. He rested it there for a second, smiling grimly. Genuine delight flashed in his youthful green eyes._

_"__Arthur! Prithee. . . Think of Lovino. He needs me." Spain murmured, his breath misting the blade._

_"__No. Mine Queen wishes thy armada to be burnt. Who am I to contradict mine sweet Elizabeth?_ _I serve her, not thou. I will take thy gold and burn thy ships, haply Lovino will think that his 'boss' hath desert'd him. . . It isn't a nice prospect but who knows? I hear it takes a long time to swim the English Channel."_

_"__NO!"_

_"__Sorry, Espanol. On the bright side. . . If thou're not back in a few years, I might claim Southern Italy as mine own." England nicked Spain's tanned chin with his cutlass. A drop of blood lay like a crimson pearl on the polished metal._

_Spain whimpered and flinched away from the blade. His hands loosened and he dropped his make-shift weapon on the floor. England grinned, stuck his hands in his pockets and pulled out two small pieces of flint. He made a pile of torn material on the table and smashed the stones together, to create a spark. It caught the tinder and travelled up in a bright orange flame._

_"__See you." Arthur bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. "I need to get back to my Empire."_

_He turned and walked out of the door, a click audible to both Harry and Antonio as he locked it._

_Spain looked up at the wooden roof above his head. "Dios mio. I've failed you, Lovino. I'll never get off this damned ship. Te amo, Romano." He closed his eyes and the scene faded as smoke filled the room. Harry felt an icy hand on his shoulders and opened his eyes._

"Sleeping in class, Mr Potter?" Professor Umbridge sneered. "Detention, my office, 6.00."


End file.
